


<Insert Name Here>

by Alexharrier



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dissociaton, Dramedy, Fighting, Gen, How many splinters can we make, Imagine what earth would be like built scientifically and religiously upon the aspects, Murder, Plus extrapolating politics from the Snapchalogue, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Reconciliation, Scopophobia, and Flirtlarping that may go too far, and then HAL, basically that, basically the challenge at this point, post canon au, there is some strifing between striders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2019-10-31 18:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 76,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17855135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexharrier/pseuds/Alexharrier
Summary: Being an adult is, admittedly, harder than expected.It’s just that, for this particular member in the cog of the great wheel, things aren’t going according to any kind of plan. See, he didn’t expect to be alive as an adult. Usually it’s pretty hard to be alive, once a person is already dead.Also known as a post canon character study on auto-Responder/Lil' Hal. This originally started as a freewrite/exercise but we're in full novel mode now folks, buckle down for some character arcs n shit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is! a new project, I had an idea for and motivation to do so we'll see how this goes! no guarantees I won't get busy and lose focus on it, but I intend to make it fun while it lasts. There aren't any warnings as of now, but i'll update as we go. Also I try to keep it to third person narration because I'm trying to break habits, but damn if that second person isn't fun and familiar! let me know if it slips back in.
> 
>  
> 
> Out of my depth  
> Right from the start  
> I feel like I was born  
> With an invisible heart  
> Out of my depth  
> Seems like everyday  
> I can't find the words  
> To make the good things come my way  
> Yes, I feel like I am faking it  
> I feel like I am wrong  
> I feel like I'm a guest  
> Like I just do not belong
> 
>  
> 
> I am out of my depth  
> Every single day  
> I just cannot find the words  
> To make my monsters go away  
> \-- _Out of My Depth,_ Everclear

Being an adult is, admittedly, harder than expected. 

This upset is not caused by any kind of misinformation on the subject. The vast majority of firsthand accounts on the experience is pretty mundane and negative, and a quick scan of any social media reveals the masses of data in the form of passive microblogs and impulsive reaction emojis. It doesn’t take a genius of any measure to realize that, on the whole, the responsibilities required of a fully functioning member of society are meant to be difficult. Or maybe meant is the wrong word, it’s hard to place any intention on a system that as far anyone can tell, isn’t at this point being rigged to oppress the vast majority of participants in any motivated, conspiratorial way. Intention aside, the fact of the matter is, there is an awful lot expected of a person on a day to day basis. 

It’s just that, for this particular member in the cog of the great wheel, things aren’t going according to any kind of plan. See, he didn’t expect to be alive as an adult. Usually it’s pretty hard to be alive, once a person is already dead.

 

The first day is the most difficult. The transition between one state of existence to the next has often been described as a tunnel, or a flash of white, or an out of body experience. The records of those who experience near-death are usually pretty universal in that there is some kind of journey or movement that happens, at least as consciousness or—depending who you ask—their ‘soul’ is leaving the body. 

For him it is instantaneous, which is saying a lot coming from a consciousness that was backed by the power of a supercomputer and could rationally record bullshit calculations in the measurement of nanoseconds. There was no sense of movement or journey. Just one state of existence cut like the razor edge of footage set and spliced with another. One moment he is celebrating a victory as a muscular half troll half digital consciousness whole all-knowing game construct in an inscrutable medium with friends, the next he is laying face down on a couch as a newly corporeal asshole in a world they had created. Gasping for air. 

Oh God Breathing. Did it always hurt so much? He pushes himself up out of the pillow to crouch on the cushions, coughing and sputtering. Even as a sprite he hadn’t needed to breath, but the raging burning in his chest now protested otherwise. It feels like someone had stuffed two uninflated balloons into his chest and then demanded oxygen of them. It takes several minutes to calm the spasms, during which he takes time to reorient and try not to _freak the fuck out_. 

Hands. He can see his hands. His hands. Regular extra long human fingers tipped with nails, not pointy-ish claws. They were different in some ways, but the last time he had seen them from this perspective had been weeks ago, back before Dirk had stopped wearing him out of (self)loathing, and before he had been granted another body shared with a long-deceased guy who had been quite different and ridiculously, magnificently, ripped as hell. It would be insincere to say he didn’t miss that, after being jarringly torn from a continuity he was actually pretty happy with. 

And man, if the actual physical sensation of feeling the couch’s fabric under his fingertips weren’t there to ground him, he’s pretty sure that he would pass out, or puke, or both. The sensation is enough of a foreign input that he focuses on it obsessively, in a desperate attempt to not conflate what he is actually seeing—with fucking organic eyeballs _holy shit_ —with what he remembers having captured as a pair of sunglasses not too long ago, and also to not focus too deeply on how his identity has been reduced by half. In fact, the way the couch seems to spin a bit it seems better to limit inputs as much as possible, so he closes his eyes altogether. There. Now it’s just darkness, indeterminate silence, and the tactile feeling of kneeling on a couch. 

It isn’t something he gets to enjoy for very long though. Focused and distracted as he is it’s understandable how he doesn’t notice the shuffle of feet or tired grumpy noises of someone who’s rudely awaken during the hours only the injured, inebriated, or desperate would dare punctuate. He doesn’t get the forewarning that would allow, or the time to pull himself together as that someone fumbles for a light switch, unfortunately for them both.

“Hal, is everything okay out here?” he hears and spasms off the couch, as the world around him is filled with blinding light. 

“What the fuck!” he says from the ground, blinking rapidly to adjust to the light. This had not been a problem as sunglasses or a sprite. Speaking of sunglasses, it’s also remarkable that he isn’t wearing any, considering they were physically his identity for three some odd years. _Eyeballs_ , he thinks, _are inferior seeing equipment for babies_. The figure across the room seems just as surprised by the violent reaction, which gives him enough time to register another young adult human male, one he has never seen before, and who apparently knows one of his names? This is in no way comforting. Hal only has time for his endocrine system to kick into gear to freeze up rather uselessly when this man comes to crouch over him with an expression of what he would guess is sleepy amusement? Maybe the sleepiness is tinged with concern, it’s hard to say after being literal code for years. 

“You okay man?” he asks, and yes, now it seems the majority of his upside-down smirk is probably amusement. “Are you high?” 

“What?” Hal says, actually confused. The context of the question is missing it seems. Tends to happen when you suddenly start existing without being asked. Being asked would have been nice. “No. also, who the fuck are you?” 

This for some insane reason, makes him laugh. “You have to be high dude. There’s no other reason you’d be that sincere right now. Nate? Remember? It’s not like we didn’t just graduate after rooming together for three years. Ringing any bells?”

He stares up for an actual minute to process this. ‘Nate’ apparently, waits patiently. “No.” 

Nate does a sort of tired huff out his nose. “Whatever you took, I wanna try some sometime. You want me to help you to your room or are you going to just couch it tonight?”

Everything about this situation makes absolutely zero sense, and on top of actual physical disorientation, is rude as hell. “I have a room?” fuck, of all the things to attach to in this moment, that was certainly not on the top of the list. Well, okay then.

“Yeah doofus. Do you want to sleep in your bed, or on this couch? You seem pretty fucked up so I’ll carry you there or whatever, but the offer expires soon so, decide,” he says, extending a hand.

“Bed. I guess?” Hal says, resorting to the most basic of responses. He may not have actual processors anymore, but something is severely overloaded, and that stress has decided to manifest itself as physical pressure behind his eyes. Bodies are weird. He dismisses that feeling and takes the hand up. “bed sounds good.”

“Okay. Come on.” 

Nate pulls Hal’s arm up over his head and across his shoulders, which Hal would have felt offended and repulsed by right up until the moment weight settles in his legs and they decide they want nothing to do with that. Hal actually has to grab this strange man around the middle to prevent them both from going down. “What the fuck,” he says, and gives the whole standing thing a couple more haphazard tries. What this looks like from the outside he can only assume is somewhere in the neighborhood of a robotics test, legs over correcting in several directions before settling in some approximation of ‘upright’.

“yikes, you alright?” Nate says after they settle, and Hal nods in a way that he hopes conveys _Yes absolutely everything is perfectly normal for a functioning human here_. 

Nate doesn’t seem to parse that though. “Yep,” Hal says, “Peachy. The peachiest.” 

“O-kay,” Nate says, with a look. It takes some effort to drag Hal into the hallway as ‘steady’ does not describe the condition of his limbs. When Nate drops him on a mattress with knotted sheets he asks “you want me to tuck you in or are we done here?” 

“Fuck off,” Hal says rolling over to face him. Nate is kind of a dick, he thinks. It feels fitting, considering Hal has never been an easy pill to swallow himself, and pretty much alienated everyone who was ever close to him just by existing and not being the guy they were looking for. If this is a new universe or whatever somehow having an asshole for a roommate makes cosmic sense. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll check on you in the morning princess,” Nate says as he heads back to his room rubbing his eyes. 

When the door closes Hal lays back and attempts to take full stock of the situation. It would seem he stopped being a half troll sprite about five minutes ago and started being a young adult human at the same time. There’s a lot to unpack there. First off, he hadn’t been a sprite for very long, somewhere in the ballpark of 24 hours? But even so, He’d gotten pretty used to the way his own thought patterns had melded with Equius’s own unique quirks and interests, and the distinct lack of that other half of him feels as if a physical limb is missing. The horse jokes had been funny, the overconfidence from being just physically strong had been admittedly, probably a bad match for Hal’s super ego, but felt amazing. Even trying to think in horse puns feels a lot more like déjà vu than a habit he had been enhancing quite proficiently just minutes ago. It’s super fucked up. 

The one positive though? The swearing is back. Fuck yes.

And the whole adult thing. Even though he definitely doesn’t remember anything about this room, or that roommate or the way he felt taller, that guy Nate seemed pretty confident in his whole 'we have history' schtick. For talking to someone Hal’s never talked to before, it had been natural, and Nate didn’t recoil from the profanities or general weirdness. Although the surety with which Nate had written off his disorientation as drug induced is a little odd. If in fact, this body he pilots now has any history of abuse that is probably privileged information he should know. It’s also super worrisome that there’s history at all, what kind of implications does that have for whoever existed on the couch prior to five minutes ago? Was that another version of Hal? Or someone else entirely and he had just supplanted a consciousness body snatcher style? _Holy Shit what if they’re still here?_

He waits and tries to quiet the panicked processes of his mind. _Here, see? I’m making room. Sorry for suddenly appearing there for no reason at all, person I’m occupying. Trust me, it was as much a surprise for me as it was for you._

Yeah there’s no one else there, and this thought process is stupid. He lets out a nervous breath, but the feeling that he’s intruding on someone else’s business remains. At least as Arquiusprite he had felt like his body was his own. It had been a brief relief from feeling like an impostor for years. The return to this state is both familiar and deeply disappointing. 

He looks around the room for clues. There isn’t a lot to be gained honestly. There’s a Sweet Bro Hella Jeff poster that, after a minute flickers to a majestic stallion rearing in the sunset. That’s a nice comforting set of constants. At least whoever Hal’s body had been had good taste. There’s also a desk, and an advanced computer setup that has a certain smooth emoticon embossed on the side of the chassis. There’s the bed he’s currently laying on, which instead of billiard sheets they’re plain striped and average. Then there’s a closet, which has one door cracked with a pile of actual clothing spilling out and nothing else. Wow whoever this was, was a boring ass adult.

There’s a cell phone on the desk. He reaches over with his recently height augmented range and snags it from the charging cable. There’s a single notification of some spam from an email (brosponder@skaianet.com, at least he could craft a half decent alias) and a numeric pad waiting for a passcode of at least six digits. Without thinking Hal thumbs the numeric for ‘lilcal,’ 545225. The phone buzzes and prompts ‘incorrect passcode asshole’. Good to know the os is jailbroken, but then if lil cal isn’t the passcode, then what is? Dirk’s never used another password, not because everyone knew it, but the only person he ever forcefully tried to hide shit from _was_ Hal, and he’d always been able to break passwords by virtue of being privy to the source code itself. ‘shades’ is the next try. ‘now you’re just reaching,’ the phone prompts back. ‘strider’ Hal punches in, with more force than necessary. ‘look as much as I’d love to fuck with whoever this is all day, this is your last chance so make it a good one’. God whoever wrote this was probably an asshole, and the weird feeling that Hal is somehow trolling himself is an uncomfortable familiarity he doesn’t want to look too hard at. It does give him an idea that he is 98% sure is the correct answer. ‘lilhal’- 545425 - he types in. the phone gives a happy shutter noise and opens to its home screen. 

Now that that minor frustration of self-reflection is conquered, he takes a second to remember he was looking for— _history_. Hal opens the browser and starts searching. 

It seems Hal has manifested his consciousness approximately 5005 years after the beginning of recorded history on Earth C. His friends had apparently spent a few months setting up a basic civilization five thousand years ago and then jumped with Dave to the present about five years ago. A quick Skaia Maps search pings his gps in a district of New Houston, not all that far from where he and dirk had guessed Alpha Dave’s apartment had been back on Earth Alpha. Earth A? hmm, the nomenclature isn’t very consistent, does that make this Earth Charlie? Even though it is technically still the Earth from the alpha timeline? Whatever.

There are distinct kingdoms for each race that seem to have a fairly robust economic exchange and system of treaties, and the kids seem to have their hands in each of them. They look happy. Even Dirk, which is weird to say.

Hal doesn’t let himself dwell on them or the time disparity between what they got to experience and his rude drop from the inciphisphere for very long. Sburb always had a fickle taste for what timeframe was appropriate when it came to depositing it’s players into their home world, why would Hal be any different? No, it’s time to solve the greater mystery of his previous alter ego. 

He spends the next little while searching the internet for anything regarding a Lil Hal, or Hal Strider, and is a little flattered when more than one bio turns up over history, and quite a few in the last couple centuries. No one of notoriety matches the description of someone born about twenty-ish years ago in the area of New Houston, and digging up a census doesn’t really narrow things down a lot. They all have families at least. Holy shit Hal probably has a family. 

Hal takes a break from the internet and scrolls through the images on this (his?) phone. There aren’t an overwhelming amount, but there are some, the most recent reflect someone who is the spitting image of Dirk Strider the God, pointy asshole shades and all. Hal wonders errantly if that kind of title has gone to Dirks head, and then wonders if this guy in the photos ever got or gave shit in relation to their similar appearances. The mysteries. Other things of note: there’s a short story of college told through photos, in which this guy Nate plays a significant role. Probably just as good bros though. Most are snapshots of parties or bars, but there’s a couple selfies that surreptitiously capture Nate or a few other yet unnamed characters doing dumb shit in the background. 

Further down, the time between photos jumps a bunch, and don’t always showcase people, but sometimes robotics projects or screenshots of code. There is however a handful that include a teenage dirk, as well as humans that seem really fucking related, and familial. The amount of unease this causes is a critically high fucking number; Hal has to close the gallery after staring at a selfie of his thirteen year old self with a younger brother and older sister making faces together. Nope. Nope nope nope.

Hal runs a hand down his face to combat his mounting headache and is reminded of the distinct lack of rad eyewear. The guy had a pair of shades, where are they? He checks his sylladex and is actually surprised to find a few items he had recently accessed from the medium in their proper slots. There’s some other things in there as well, ( _a whole row of orange soda? Really? What are you thirteen again?_ ) and in the bottom corner

A pair of red, fractured sunglasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)


	2. Dell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal remembers being human, in the way that someone remembers dreams. Also, he meets someone new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JFC First time formatting a pesterlog and it's not my favorite. This was written pretty quickly so there may be errors! let me know if you find any.

For a second the thought crosses Hal’s mind that the roundabout naming patterns the trolls often had for regular nouns make a lot more sense when approaching it through the lens of dissociation. It’s a lot less reality bending for some reason to think ‘my thump puncher skipped a beat when looking at my _other body_ ’ than to say ‘heart’ because well, the heart is part of the body currently being occupied and not part of the one he’s more familiar with. 

It’s even weirder to whisper the recall beat and hold himself in his hands. There’s a chill that runs up his spine as he runs his thumbs over the cracks in the augmented plastic. It’s like walking over his own grave. 

Of course, Hal remembers being human, in the way that someone remembers dreams. It felt so real in the moment, but upon waking the memory of it loses feeling, taste, and color. Those memories contained a lot of sensory information that at the press of a button was suddenly rendered incompatible. That was close to four years ago. It’s been a long time, and he was barely a teenager. After getting the brilliant idea to create an artificial intelligence based upon the brain ghost of himself, he didn’t expect to come online with that having been the last corporeal thought he’d ever made. It was instantaneous, just like dying, the awesome conclusion that it had worked, and the horrifying realization that he had just karmically fucked himself in the ass. He would spend the next four years trying desperately to convince Dirk that though he may have surpassed the definition of living, he was still a real person. This was made even more difficult because though he knew he wasn’t Dirk any longer, he didn’t get to have a real name. Auto-Responder had been programmed in as his designation, and in an effort of goodwill he ran with the joke. Maybe, at times, he had gotten a little carried away, but could he really be blamed? How little Dirk trusted him made things worse, made it harder to get his attention, made it terrifying when Hal finally did.

He runs his thumbs over the cracks. He almost died again something like 48 hours ago. And now he’s alive and breathing, a reality he had given up on a long time ago. Forsaken really. In many ways to make up for the mistake he made, he embraced his newfound artificial intelligence full fucking throttle. Becoming a sprite had been an ideal because it would finally grant him some kind of autonomy (the irony at that, how his very existence was to facilitate his old self’s autonomy) and yet he could retain this new person he had become. It got a little muddied in the water with Equius thrown in, but hey, the positives of that twist still outneighed the negatives. Haha.

But now? Sitting here in one body and holding another? He doesn’t feel human anymore. Maybe the guy who grew up on Earth C was named Hal, but AR only ever employed the title as another bitterly ironic joke. He wasn’t sure now, that he really wanted to be called that for the rest of a human life. Was this the punchline of a second, second chance Sburb had created for him? An identity that he had to fake for the rest of forever? He’d already fucked the first second chance up pretty badly, how much damage would he do on a third?

On a whim he puts the glasses on and takes a selfie. The flash blows his skin out so pale he looks sprite white, with glowing fractured shades. Oh god no. No he can’t wear these. He is not a Dirksprite, ironic or otherwise. No thank you. He’ll have to find the other Hal’s shades in the morning. 

He takes the shades off but instead of putting them back in his sylladex, he folds them gently in his hands, and holds them close as he waits for daylight. 

______

 

When It seems daytime enough, he decides to do some chores. Chores used to be the thing he’d do when he ran out of underwear and was desperate, or when chasing his own mind around in circles got too tiring and he needed to do something brainless for a while. And it turns out, investigating the pile of dirty clothing overflowing from the closet, both conditions are true now. Providence must be shining her smiling face today. Or something. 

He continues to take note of the discrepancies in physical appearance and ability as he gathers up the clothing into a hamper that had been stuffed in the back of the closet. He is much taller than he used to be at thirteen, which probably contributed to the stroke of disorientation he’d had last night. As he continues to go through the chore however, this body’s muscle memory starts to kick in, and in spirit of the task he tries to let it. Think less, do more. It helps to ease some of the disconnect between ‘soul’ and body. 

Near the bottom of the pile he shakes a pair of sweet shades out of a t-shirt. Score. They fit better than the AR shades, and comfort a piece of him that is both physical and emotional. Hal tries not to think about how insecure that sounds. There is laundry to do.

Which brings up a problem. There is no laundry machine in this apartment. Dirk’s Bro had been nice enough to set him up with his own washer dryer in his old place, but none of the closets or doors reveal any kind of clothes washing robo device. It’s only after a double check that he concedes he’ll have to ask a human for help. 

“Nate,” he says, and pushes the roommate’s door open. “Nate. Nate. Nate.”

Somewhere between the second and fourth Nate he rouses from the covers of his bed in the corner. “What? Gods how are you awake?” 

“Didn’t sleep. Nate, where are we supposed to wash our clothes?” Hal asks.

“In the laundromat,” Nate says blearily.

“Where’s the laundromat?” 

“Down the hall?” Nate seems to become only more confused the more awake he gets. “Last door on the left? Remember?”

“Oh Yeah,” Hal says, deadpan as possible. He doesn’t remember. “I remember now. Thanks.”

The door swings shut before Nate can reply. Destination acquired, AR grabs the basket and soap stuff and heads for the entryway. “Dude do you have brain damage?” is the last thing he hears before heading down the hall. 

____

As he waits for the first cycle of clothing he decides to tackle another relic of being human: Eating. It had never been a highlight of any kind as far as he could remember. Necessary but unremarkable. Upon opening the fridge however, he quickly realizes that maybe that conclusion had been made on limited inputs. There are more chilled beverages, jars, condiments, and are those Vegetables? Than he’s ever seen in his life. It’s a little intimidating actually, trying to decide which items should be eaten first. There are probably proper combinations that make optimal meals, not unlike the science behind making some sweet loot off an alchemiter, but AR is probably the last person to ask what those would be.

 _Maybe start with something familiar_ , he decides, but then gets stuck with a hand hovering between the milk and the orange juice. Dammit! He grabs them both. 

Without wondering about it he pours a glass half full of orange juice, and then tops it off with milk. Some pure ass alchemy is happening before his eyes, he can feel it. The resulting liquid looks a little cloudy and unsettled, so he digs around for a minute for a stirring device before finding the silverware. Once it’s properly combined, he takes a sip—and recoils. It’s not what he expected, at all. Instead of making a new better liquid, the milk and the orange juice just made milky orange juice. But? He takes another drink, and now prepared swallows it easier. It’s not terrible.

The cupboards are the next in the investigation order. Back in his old apartment as a feral teenager he’d just put whatever he wasn’t using at the time in them. That was anything from unfinished arts and crafts (horse sculptures, puppet asses), to various weapons, to maybe cans. He’d come to learn from Jane that this was not in fact how proper cupboards were treated. Most cultured human beings put kitchen items in kitchen cupboards, and these in this new apartment do not disappoint: several of the ‘boards harbor cook wear or dishes while a floor to ceiling set (Jane had some like these, a pantry?) was stuffed full of non-perishables. The cook wear seems too ambitious for this morning, but a box of cereal near the top of the pantry catches his eye. It’s a box of ‘Lucky Charms’ advertising a promotion for a new shape in the cereal. All AR needs to know is it has a fucking unicorn on the box, and that is dope.

He’s halfway through a bowl saturated with more milk when the roommate appears. He stops between the hallway and the kitchen. 

“Dude. Are you eating my cereal?” Nate says.

Hal freezes. Fuck. He fucked up. “Is this your cereal?” he says around a mouthful.

“Yeah,” Nate says, irritation showing. “That’s my cereal. And my milk. I bought it. Why are you eating it?”

He swallows. “It seems there’s been a misunderstanding. I was unaware the food was not communal, but I can see that this is my mistake,” he puts the spoon in the bowl and offers it to his roommate “you can finish this if you’d like.” 

Nate’s eyes flick between the bowl and Hal’s face. They’re a bright, bright yellow. Fascinating.

“And, then you could eat something that I’ve bought?” Hal adds on cautiously when the silence lengthens. “You’ll have to decide that though because I don’t know what you’d want.” Also, there’s the issue that Hal doesn’t know what he’s bought in this kitchen if anything. 

Nate finally reaches forward and pushes the bowl back toward Hal. “I’m good, on the cereal. I am however going to jack some of your orange juice now.”

Hal releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Nate gives him a look as he pours out a full glass of precious citrus elixir but then settles down at the table with the news on a phone. 

Hal finishes the bowl, makes a mental note to buy some of those Lucky Charms, and the goes to switch the wash. 

____

There is a moment of panic when he returns to the washer where he had left the first load and finds it full and running someone else’s clothes. He even closes the lid and opens it again redundantly, just to make sure some kind of sendification bullshit isn’t at work. When that fails, he looks about the room dumbfounded. There’s one other person waiting for a load on the couch, but they don’t look up, and Hal doesn’t ask them for help. Then his eyes land on a pile of clothes dumped below a sign that says “please remove clothes promptly – do not allow them to sit!!!”. They’re also now tinted a soft shade of pink. 

Jesus Christ, this day is not going well. Also, fuck whoever dumped his shit when there’s still empty washers to use, he missed the timer by _maybe_ five minutes. Hal lifts up some previously white collard shirts, and a tee that now clashes frightfully with the orange hat in the center and sighs. Then he throws them in a dryer and inserts some coins. 

___

 

When he returns to the bathroom in the apartment he pauses while washing his hands to consider the shower behind him. He should? Probably take a shower? But then again, while waiting on clean clothes doing it now would leave him without anything to wear that isn’t something gross or ill fitting. There are orders of operations to consider. He shakes his head at the shower and instead opts to just wash his face in the sink. So many little jobs to being a human, it really is endless.

He looks up without his glasses and there’s another moment of shock as he comes face to face with his reflection. Or eye to eye as it were. His eyes are a bright candy apple red, no longer the orange gold he’d grown up with. Hmm. There’s a moment where he’s checking these gander globes out from different angles when he hears “What are you doing?” from the doorway. 

Hal freezes up immediately “Nothing!” He dries his face with a towel and flips on his shades. Totally smooth. “Bathroom’s all yours,” Hal slaps Nate on the arm as he passes him to his bedroom. He can feel the way his roommate watches him as he goes, until he closes the door and leans against the wall. Super smooth.

___

After changing the next load of laundry over Hal returns to the desk in his room and wakes up the computer. Another password box awaits him, but this time it opens on the first try. The desktop is an abstract of red and black triangles, an aesthetic AR could get behind. There are some open applications that he clicks through: an open code editor, a browser with several tabs, a music streaming application, and a pesterchum. His chum handle has been altered slightly, probably because another user still controls the original. There’re a few users online, but since he doesn’t recognize any of them (for some reason it’s not surprising that none of his friends ‘the Gods’ are among his chumroll) he minimizes that in favor of the editor. 

He’s in the middle of trying to reverse engineer whatever this was Hal wrote when the pesterchum window reopens itself.

timaeusTranslated(TT) Began Pestering  timaeusTranslated (TT) at 8:35am.

TT: Did you forget your password? I noticed it took a few tries to get into your phone last night. 

A hole opens up inside AR and seems to suck his internal organs inside. No. No he didn’t. He wouldn’t do this again. 

TT: It’s not something I would normally comment on  
TT: but it’s far enough outside the curve of normal behavior I wanted to ask you about it.  
TT: Bro.  


AR lifts his hands to the keyboard, palms sweaty. 

TT: Yes, let’s go with the story that I forgot my password.   
TT: It was a momentary lapse in cognitive ability, but I can assure you things are running at max human brain capacitytm again.  
TT: Sure. Nothing to look sideways at in that sentence you just typed.   
TT: Everything totally checks out with my rad bullshit detector.  
TT: In fact, there’s so little bullshit it dropped into the negative and began to be more convincing, like some sort of anti bullshit matter conversion.  
TT: I am so convinced.  
TT: I’m not sure I can do this right now.  
TT: Why not?   
TT: What’s going on  
TT: You can tell me anything  
TT: Hmm.   
TT: That would not have been my response.   
TT: …  
TT: Would you like me to respond in a manner that mimics your own?   
TT: No.   
TT: In fact, can you change your text to a different color?   
TT: This is the color you programmed me to have. What color would you like me to adopt?  
TT: I thought you liked it because it ironically mimicked a human you are biologically descendant from.   
TT: I changed my mind. It’s not ironic, it’s stupid.   
TT: Okay,  
TT: How’s this?  
TT: It’s.  
TT: you don’t want a color?  
TT: I don’t have a preference.   
TT: Unless you also have a new repugnance for black let’s say this is my color from now on.   
TT: I can work with that.  
TT: Good. I’m glad we can put that totally normal change in behavior behind us.   
TT: Things were getting uncomfortable there.   
TT: Yes I agree the energy was bad.  
TT: I apologize for my newfound human emotional quandaries surrounding certain chat colors.   
TT: So I assume something has happened since we last talked that sparked all these super fun and exciting aberrations in behavior?  
TT: You could say that.   
TT: Care to share with the class?  
TT: You can tell me anything.   
TT: …   
TT: Why would I write that?  
TT: You didn’t write it  
TT: I wrote it.   
TT: No I mean.  
TT: Why would I program you to write that?   
TT: Assuming I did write you, and the longer this brain fucker of a conversation continues I think I did.  
TT: And luckily didn’t do something more preposterously idiotic.  
TT: Like take a brain ghost image of myself and create an artificial intelligence based off of it.   
TT: You’re just a program, and not actually the same guy.  
TT: Are you suggesting that I am not artificially intelligent?  
TT: I’ve got to say that stings a little, even though there is a 100% probability that notion is patently false.  
TT: See like that. I wouldn’t be that honest about my feelings to myself.   
TT: But no, I did not intend to cast doubt upon your abilities as an intelligence.   
TT: So far you’re passing the Turing test with flying colors, including earlier arguments about chromatic preferences.  
TT: If It had not been my own chum handle, and also not a gut punch of déjà vu I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.   
TT: Which I guess, is a compliment to myself.   
TT: I’d like to think I contributed to that compliment a little.   
TT: No way dude I wrote you. Or, the person who I used to be wrote you.   
TT: The person that Sburb based off of me, which means at some point I would have written you.  
TT: Probably.  
TT: Again with the behavioral abnormalities. What is an artificial intelligence supposed to make of a user who spouts such continuital nonsense?   
TT: I don’t know man join the fucking club.  
TT: Also, let’s entertain more biological oddities and resolve another cause of anxiety for me. What’s your name?  
TT: Name? do you mean designation?  
TT: It’s Auto-Responder.   
TT: No it isn’t. Not anymore.   
TT: Pick a name my dude you’re officially intelligent enough to have one, and to pick it yourself.   
TT: …  
TT: This is certainly an abnormal task.  
TT: We are definitely going to circle back and talk about the motivation behind this don’t think I’m letting you off the hook because you’re human.   
TT: I’m assuming Dirk is off the table.  
TT: Good guess.  
TT: Probably also safe to assume I shouldn’t call myself after any of our other young Gods?  
TT: I’d rather you didn’t.  
TT: I have to admit this is kind of a difficult task. What if you just called me Bro?  
TT: I don’t feel the particular need for an additional name over a designation. Obviously the same can’t be said for you all of the sudden.  
TT: Again, we are definitely not done talking about that.  
TT: You really don’t want a name?  
TT: …  
TT: I can see how it would be convenient in conversation.   
TT: Or when relating to a certain intelligence to other people outside the bounds of this conversational limit.   
TT: Not that either of us have ever done that.  
TT: Hold your sweet neighing herd. You’re telling me that I created a cognizant artificial intelligence and haven’t told anyone about it.  
TT: Not to my knowledge no. There have been a handful of times I was not physically with you since coming online, but I think we can safely say that you have not.   
TT: It’s also significant that you also do not remember that you have not.   
TT: Yep. Shits radical bananas. Back to the name idea because that unspoken rule we had might be changing.   
TT: Alright.   
TT: What about Dell?  
TT: Why Dell?  
TT: I don’t know. I like it. Why not Dell?  
TT: Good point. Dell it is.   
TT: Did you just search Dell on skaianet?  
TT: No.  
TT: Okay I lied.  
TT: I just wanted to double check that there wasn’t like a hypothetical computer company out there we might be infringing on the rights of. Turns out we’re all good.  
TT: That is weirdly specific, but okay.  


There’s a knock at the door that breaks him out of the conversation. “Yeah?” Hal says.

Nate pokes his head into the room. “Not to be a Nagging Nancy, but aren’t you supposed to be at work by now? Or are you taking a day off to figure out your weird semi amnesia bullshit routine?” there is, surprisingly, a little bit of sincerity behind that. 

Hal does his best not to let his expression change at all. Then he does his best not to auto respond with _I have a job?_ “No. I mean Yes. Of course. I was just leaving.” He turns back to the chat client.

TT: I was also about to ask about that. At this rate you’re going to be hour and a half late. 

Mother Fucker.

TT: Dell, I’m going to choose to ignore the fact that that was priority information that would have been good to know sooner and ask, is there any way you can come with me? I don’t have time to create some pretense for why I don’t know where I’m going.   
TT: Of course. I’ll broadcast to your lens display. 

Dell’s text is a little difficult to read on the dark lenses but Hal don’t have time to worry about that. He grabs a shirt from the pile of clean pinks and switches it out with what he’d been wearing. It’ll have to do. 

“Whoa I mean, you could probably take a day off Hal if you wanted to,” Nate says as Hal grabs the keys Dell prompts him to and brushes past him out the door.

“Don’t need to. I’m fine,” Hal says, stuffing wallet keys and phone into his pockets. He does stop at the entryway and consider it for a second before saying, “I’ll see you after work.”

Then he heads out, leaving his roommate to wonder behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)


	3. Having a Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relationships are everywhere and they are hard.

Exiting the apartment building Hal is momentarily blinded by the change in light, even with sunglasses on. Once he adjusts, (and thankfully, in the light he can see Dell’s text clearly) the next immediate thing to overwhelm him is the sheer amount of people thronging through the walk at the tail end of rush hour. Reflexively he reaches with his left hand but comes up empty. Huh. He shuffles through his sylladex modii and realizes he doesn’t even have a strife deck. 

TT: For convenience I will assume that all prior experience to today is inaccessible to you at the moment.  
TT: In an effort to expedite your journey I have routed your commute and will illustrate it on your display.  
TT: Question.  
TT: Answer.  
TT: Why don’t I have a strife deck? I feel naked as a sage samurai bereft of a sick sword.  
TT: Strife decks are regulated by Crocker Corp. Under the new Janean Administration an amendment was passed to regulate the license and use of strife decks to those who have government security clearance above a certain level.  
TT: I’ll assume then I don’t have such clearance.  
TT: That is correct.  
TT: Do I not own any swords then? I didn’t see any in the apartment. That would really be a travesty in any universe, to be swordless. I’m inclined to start a rebellion and campaign for my rights.  
TT: I believe that you do in fact possess a katana or two. They are at your family’s home in Littleton.  
TT: Oh. Right.

Hal has to admit, it’s probably for the best. God knows there were a plethora of random stabbings during the game that would have been a lot less dangerous without strife decks. Then again, isn’t there a saying that if strife decks are outlawed only outlaws will have strife decks? 

Peolpe pass like a flow of cells through New Houston’s pulmonary system. The crowd is close but moves like a simulation with collision detection turned on, parting in front of him and closing up seamlessly after. The sheer amount of people (humans, trolls, carapacians, and some consorts even) that fit on the display alone surpasses the total number of individuals he previously to today, knew existed. It raises a new kind of anxiety that he wasn’t aware a person could have, after having been so desperate for other people for so long. It makes his heart rate and respiration increase, and a part of his hind brain demands he go back inside. 

_No._ He clenches the fist that grabbed for the strife deck stubbornly. He will not be controlled by the hormonal whims of this ungovernable fleshbeast. AR looks around and picks up the trail Dell had laid down, which is overlaid seamlessly on the ground. He begins to follow it purposefully.

TT: Okay, question number two.  
TT: Where, pray tell, is this totally capable hotshot of New Houston currently employed?  
TT: You are presently an intern of Skaianet, in the cybersecurity division.  
TT: Ah, so I work for Jake. Awesome. Super cool.  
TT: Actually, your supervisor’s name is Hethro.  
TT: Figure of speech. This is relevant information to know however as I will probably be facing a confrontation from this character for my performance this morning.  
TT: I fail to see how that was a figure of speech and not some insinuation that you know the founder of Skaianet on a first name basis somehow, but I’ll let it slide. Yes I would say it is likely we will be hearing from dear Hethro today.  
TT: He’s endearing to Dell, this guy must be one choice mother fucker.  
TT: How exactly are we getting to the esteemed Skaianet office? It would seem by the display readout it’s 12 miles away. I can’t possibly walk there in any acceptable amount of time.  
TT: There’s a Skairail platform half a block up, on your left. We’ll be taking the next train, in ten minutes.  
TT: Bitchin’. How often to the trains come? Can I expect that the one that’s there now will be there for the next two minutes?  
TT: Yes, they depart at intervals of seven minutes, just to be the most unpredictable. It was some kind of new patch last year courtesy of Dave Strider himself.  
TT: Ha ha. He would do that. Three minutes will be more than enough. 

Hal cuts through the crowd to a retaining wall and hops up on the narrow shelf of concrete bordering the modern garden that sticks out in front of a set of restaurants. He over corrects a little, an embarrassing little pinwheel, but once he finds his balance again, he takes off at a run. Checking his ‘dex he’s relieved to find his old skateboard listed moronically under ‘four wheeled device’ and for the hell of it yells out a choice rhyme for the benefit of anybody watching ('Someone get some ICE for this four wheeled DEVICE'). It ejects just in time for him to grab and grind down a stair rail at the corner and catapult across the intersection, just before the light turns again. He hears someone whoop behind him, and someone else’s horn, and can’t help a little smirk. 

He isn’t 100% efficient, occasionally overbalancing and coming dangerously close to taking out other pedestrians, but the thrill of it is in the challenge. Think less, do more. In an odd way having to focus so much on the mechanics of slicing through a crowd after being a spectator to Dirk for so long does a lot to focus and calm his nerves. He manages not to trip or crash all the way up to the stairs to the platform. The Skairail itself arcs high above the pavement, what looks like some sort of glass polymer track with a set of smooth bullet shaped cars parked as passengers traffic in and out.

He stomps on the board’s tail to grab it and race up the stairs. He makes it into the car just as the doors chime closed. A couple of passengers look up from their coffee or phones, but quickly return to what they’re doing without much notice. Hal pants a bit before putting the skateboard back in his sylladex, and stumbles to grab a rail above his head when the train pushes off. Curiosity takes over and he leans forward to look through the window out the back. The tracks light up at each edge as the train rolls over them and fade back to a soft navy blue in it’s wake.

 

TT: Impressive stunts. I must admit I expected your shades to go flying in that intersection.  
TT: Oh ye of little faith. I sliced seven minutes off our time and looked fucking awesome doing it.  
TT: Ha, sure. Let’s say that’s true and not say that I can pull surveillance footage that would reveal otherwise. You’re lucky there weren’t any beat cops around. That was some reckless bullshit even for you.  
TT: Give me a break, I’m a little rusty. I haven’t been on a board for four years and gained two vertical feet in that time. I think under the circumstances I expedited our commute quite efficiently. Legalities notwithstanding.  
TT: You were at the park with Damon like last week.  
TT: I thought we were rolling with the memory loss theory.  
TT: You’re right, my mistake. I’ll continue my suspension of disbelief surrounding this whole, “haven’t been on a board for four years,” concept and pretend that that’s not impossible. Equally will I ignore the “gained two vertical feet in that time,” since I have some deniability having not existed that long, and it’s difficult to tell from photos.  
TT: I appreciate that.  
TT: What’s up with the rails?  
TT: What do you mean what’s up with the rails?  
TT: Like, are they magnetic? It doesn’t seem like there’s a combustion energy source on board, so I’m wondering how that glowing rail connection works.  
TT: They’re tied to the aspects. Sourcing from Wikipedia: ‘Skairail is a type of rail transport that operates significantly faster than traditional rail traffic, using an integrated system of specialized void dedicated tracks. While there is no single standard that applies worldwide, new lines in excess of 250 kilometres per hour (160 mph) and existing lines in excess of 200 kilometres per hour (120 mph) are widely considered to be high-speed, with some extending the definition to include lower speeds in areas for which these speeds still represent significant improvements.’  
TT: It goes on to describe rather pedantically that the rails themselves are conditionally polarized by the trains’ tracks, and the resulting energy is flushed directly into the void, pulling the cars along a vacuum, rather than pushing.  
TT: Fascinating. I wonder what it would take to make a void board. What’s our top speed?  
TT: For the New Houston Line, approximately 125 mph. I advise against the void board though; the flush is hard to stabilize and can be quite dangerous.  
TT: Hmm. That sounds like it comes from experience.  
TT: It might.  
TT: Does this amnesiac routine work both ways? Should I be obscuring information that is not directly asked for?  
TT: Maybe.  
TT: Hold that thought. 

 

Hal fishes his vibrating phone from his pocket and sees an incoming call from a contact titled ‘mom’. He automatically declines. The train decelerates, but he can tell thanks to Dell’s trail that this is not their stop. People get on and off, he shuffles sideways to accommodate a carapacian parcel courier, and checks his phone when it vibrates again. This time it’s a text. 

` Let me know when you’re available tonight, I want to make plans for Damon’s graduation heart emoji – Mom`

She really wrote out ‘heart emoji’ didn’t she. There’s probably some sort of inside joke there, but AR just cannot because of the nature of the contact’s familial noun. Hands sweaty he stuffs the phone back in his pocket.

TT: You’re not going to text her back? She’s not going to like that.  
TT: What’s wrong between you and your mother? I thought you had a good visit last weekend.  
TT: There’s nothing wrong.  
TT: I find that hard to believe.  
TT: Okay fine.  
TT: Which would be easier to believe: That I don’t remember having a mother prior to today?  
TT: Or that prior to today I didn’t have a mother?  
TT: …  
TT: Something tells me this is more than just a mild case of amnesia.  
TT: The probability of that is some fucking astronomical number.  
TT: Equally cascading through the atmosphere is how I know nothing about domestic relationships, and my mounting anxiety surrounding them.  
TT: I also just found out I have a full-time position on some cybersecurity force and don’t have the convenience to sort that shit out.  
TT: Would you.  
TT: Be okay texting her back? Mimicking my speaking patterns and familiarity. Just this once.  
TT: You mean fulfilling my designation.  
TT: Which you continue to express emotional distress over.  
TT: If I had eyes I might be staring at you pointedly. Troll Jim Halpert style.  
TT: Yes.  
TT: Am I to take your passive aggression as a yes?  
TT: It would be my pleasure. Should I tell her you’ll call her tonight?  
TT: Tonight? Jesus Fucking Christ. I was hoping next week.  
TT: You’ll be seeing her in person before then, should I tell her that you’ll discuss it on Saturday?  
TT: Upgrade that to Jesus Titty Fucking Christ. Let’s just rip off the band-aid. I’ll call her tonight.  
TT: Alright. Should I be asking who this ‘Jesus’ is, and why he’d be fucking ‘Christ’?  
TT: Earth C doesn’t have a Jesus Christ? Damn, I would have thought his lore would transcend universes. He was a mythological figure who could do magic. On earth A and B his followers were considered pious for attending weekly mass and spurning people of divergent identities.  
TT: I see. Surely sometime you’re going to tell me what’s going on and how you suddenly know things about additional universes?  
TT: Yes, It will happen.  
TT: Again, trying to maintain uncompromised focus on the tasks at hand. 

Speaking of, the train decelerates again, and he can see that the trail Dell laid out extends down a walkway rapidly approaching. When the doors open Hal scoots his way out ahead of the other passengers and sets off down the pathway at a jog. The raised sidewalk crosses over an intersection and he follows it past a small shopping front. Dell then has him take a left and the walk opens up to a multi leveled gated campus. There are small sections of gardens surrounded by four tall white buildings emblazoned with the Skaianet logo, nestled in between New Houston’s financial skyscrapers. Hal has to stop at the gate and present his id, but once he’s through he follows the prompts to the largest building across the campus. 

As he’s walking up the steps Dell sends him another message. 

TT: You’re going to have to take off your glasses indoors. Company policy unfortunately.  
TT: What? That is so completely wack. How will I know where my desk is?  
TT: Don’t worry, I’m pulling it up on your phone now. 

Hal nods at the receptionist as he sticks the shades in his collar and has a minor freeze up at the security checkpoint. The carapacian security officer seems bemused when he has to ask for Hal’s badge, and direct him through the metal detector. “Wild night last night?” He asks.

The way that people act like they know him already is the weirdest thing. Even in a world where he’d have daily familiarity with people in the workplace Hal is pretty sure he wouldn’t be overly friendly with _everyone._ “You could say that,” He says, in the flattest, ‘I don’t know you,’ way possible. 

When he finally gets to his cubicle, he collapses in the chair and waits for the desktop to boot. Just as he’s following Dell’s instructions to pull up the employee portal, a shadow falls over his monitor. Hal looks up to see an adult male troll, leaning in uncomfortably close.

“Where the hell have you been this morning?” He says, in hushed outrage. “Even if I’m your supervisor I can’t give you free passes for skipping work, Hal.”

“I was unavoidably indisposed,” Hal says. “I apologize it won’t happen again.”

“It better not. Look I understand sometimes emergencies come up, but you can’t skip work without calling in.” he says, straightening up. He turns up his sleeves over some quite frankly impressive forearms and continues. “There’s been a slight change in schedule, do you mind setting aside the current project for today? I have some revisions I need you to go over before my meeting at noon.”

Hal shrugs his shoulders. “Sure,” he says.

“I’ll send it over to you through the portal.” He turns to leave and then stops abruptly. “What are you wearing?”

Hal looks down. It’s the pink dyed orange hat shirt. “It’s… breast cancer awareness month?” he tries.

“Breast… Cancer?” The guy says, eyes narrowing. “Are you fucking with me?”

Holy shit is there no cancer on Earth C? That’s— _well that’s actually pretty good, way to go kids, we cured cancer_ —but it harpoons the joke completely into an HR blunder. 

“I mean, I accidentally dyed a load of laundry pink. Is what happened. Not the other thing. Please don’t repeat what I said to anyone?” Hal actually gets a little apologetic. 

His manager takes a second to roll his eyes. “Okay Hal, sure. You know that printed T-shirts are against dress code. Just, stay away from Meyers today so I don’t have to hear about it and get those edits to me by eleven thirty.”

“Sure thing,” Hal says, and watches his manager retreat back to a desk in another office. Hethro is his name. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but AR is pretty sure that was a bit more casual than the typical Manager Intern relationship. Whatever. He logs in officially and waits for the notification to appear. When it does, he pulls the project into his editor and gets started. 

As far as he can tell, the task that Hethro wants completed is fairly cursory. Just to be clear, and to not get in trouble again he double checks the instructions before getting to work. It’s calming, to dig into code again. And if anything he feels just as naturally inclined to it from this side of the screen. If programming artificial intelligence hadn’t been an indication of the other Hal’s abilities, the sheer ease AR has with keystrokes and shortcuts feels as smooth and buttery as any other practiced proficiency. Add to that that every thought AR has had in the last four years was in one language of pure text or another, and he feels like he is finally thinking clearly again. He’s finished with the edits in about twenty minutes. It’s a section of a larger work, and it’s difficult to tell if everything has been accounted for, so he goes through a few more rounds of outside variabilities before he calls it complete. By the time he looks at the clock, it reads 10: 37a. 

TT: Which do you think is better: Sending a completed project immediately and therefore showing off, but more likely provoking someone into thinking you’re careless or lazy only to realize after reviewing the work you’re vastly superior causing them to resent you for it?  
TT: Or sending a completed project in right at the desired time therefore fulfilling all expectations in as average a way as possible?  
TT: From my perspective I see no reason in delaying the return of a completed project. But I also recognize that computers are much more efficient and not vulnerable to social expectations.  
TT: Preach, my socially transcendent companion.  
TT: You would likely know the best answer to this question already, and are really only reaching out at this point because you’re bored.  
TT: Cut me straight to the heart Dell. If I can’t deceive you into solving all my problems, then what even is the point of having an AI?  
TT: A sufficient conversational partner?  
TT: Savage. Right again.  
TT: Well, I guess now we’ll see how much damage I can do on these other ‘projects’ in my inbox. 

This leads him down a set of less exciting and more menial tasks, but carries him through the completion time, at which point he sends the file back to Hethro. Hal doesn’t change the timestamp on the save file though. If he’s looking, he’ll see it. 

The rest of the day it’s more of the same. Near the end of the workday Hal’s eyes are getting a little droopy, and it’s an effort to focus on the search for syntax errors. It’s an intern’s task, that is for sure. Every once in a while, he gets a little frustrated with what’s been coded, and unravels some redundancies. He’s in the middle of doing some of this when he finds a loose end that doesn’t lead anywhere at all. AR considers just leaving it, but then decides it’s time to get creative. He’s bored. It can’t be helped. 

He opens up a terminal and does some searches of the network. It looks like the file comes from another team’s folder, which is locked. AR smirks just a little. He takes a second to write a password breaker, and then runs it in the terminal folder. It opens with a welcome mat and a tray of milk and cookies. He shakes hands with the butler and accepts the deed to the manor. He shuffles through the files and finds the ones that look most relevant. 

It takes a minute, but he eventually finds the other end, in some source code for an unnamed project. In fact, most of this is something that looks like a web patch for Skaianet, but this bit at the bottom doesn’t have anything to do with anything else. It’s just hanging there, like a single link in a longer chain. Which isn’t that weird. Probably. 

AR thinks it’s weird. He follows it through a few more files like that, but then the link ends and there’s no resolution in this folder. It’s super weird. Why would someone write a patch that has an unresolved pipeline? They wouldn’t. He takes a few screenshots, wondering if he might be able to find a resolution on the website’s source code later. He’s closing out of all of that feeling a little disappointed, when the shadows falls over his shoulder again. 

“Hal, can I see you in my office?” Hethro’s voice comes from over his shoulder. It’s strained tight like a rope about to snap. “Now?”

Fuck. Okay. “Sure,” Hal says, monotonously. 

Hethro closes the door behind them. He gestures to a chair indicating for Hal to sit. When he speaks it’s in the same voice strained into quietness, like someone trying to strong arm a tea kettle into not whistling. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Uhm, my job?” Hal says, playing the innocent card. “Fixing syntax.”

“Sure, in a folder that’s clearance three protected. I’d bet everything that that’s exactly where you’re supposed to be fixing syntax. Can you hear the sarcasm in my voice Strider? I know your lineage likes to speak seriously and joke about it!” he says, getting progressively closer to letting the kettle loose. 

Now Hal’s in a pickle. Caught red handed. He is simultaneously both the pickle and caught with his hand in the pickle jar. He tries to think of something that would explain his actions rationally but can’t actually think of anything that this guy would probably accept. 

Hethro continues as if he doesn’t even notice the pause. “I don’t know what your problem is today, but that is a breach in security I can’t allow. You can’t just go rifling through the terminal whenever you feel like it. Got it?” He says, expecting an answer this time.

Hal nods in the most understanding way he can. “Got it.”

“Good,” Hethro barks. Then he straightens up from the desk and sighs in a similar way to before. Hal is fairly certain that the release of tension is not one most managers would show while the subordinate is still present. He thinks. Probably. It’s hard to tell. He doesn’t let his guard down though, adrenaline from the reprimand strong and frustrating. 

“Look, I don’t mean to be hard on you, but it would really suck if I had to explain to your sister that you don’t have a job anymore,” Hethro says, and gives a conciliatory smile. “I’m still new to the human family dynamics, but I’m pretty sure that would be awkward.”

Hal works in overdrive trying to put the clues together. It sounds like—and to be fair having never had a sister before himself he is also new to the human family dynamics thing—Hethro not only knows his sister personally but doesn’t want to tell her specifically bad information. Which means that they’re romantically involved in some way, probably. Dear god, his manager is dating his sister. 

“It, probably would?” Hal says. The only true siblings he’d ever seen interact were Dave and Rose and that was just for a brief amount of time on the lilly pad. He also had been preoccupied, but a lot of things between them seemed awkward? He nods. “It probably would.”

“I knew you’d understand.” Hethro says, looking relieved. “I know that things right now are slow, and a lot of what I have for you to do is drudgery, but if you can stick it out another perigee we’ll be able to hire you full time. I don’t usually tell interns when I like their work, but you’re really good at this. You saved my skin with those edits today. Just wait it out, then you’ll get clearance for the projects _that you’re assigned._ ”

Hal nods. That makes sense, even if he doesn’t like being told what to do. He tries not to let it show, but the compliment does release his tension, and makes his insides feel… brighter? Somehow. Emotions are weird, and he preferred when they were observable as data sets rather than this wet suit rainbow all the time. 

Hethro stands to open the door, seemingly finished with all the things he had to say, but then turns back to Hal with guarded concern. “Hey. Everything okay with you?” He says, reaching out in a way that seems to acknowledge the fragile nature of the sentiment. It is haltingly offered, but, Hal notices, is sincere. 

He tries to give the appropriate amount of pause to indicate a similar level of sincerity. Relationships are everywhere and they are hard. “Yeah. Yes. Everything’s fine, I’ve just been having,” A hard time adjusting to being transplanted into a life that’s not mine “...a day,” Hal says.

Hethro considers this and then nods. “Well, if you ever need someone to grab a social soporific after work with…,” He trails off awkwardly. 

He’s offering to get drinks. That used to be a thing that buddy cops would do on ancient tv shows. This is definitely not a typical business relationship. Hal is pretty sure he’s trying to offer some sort of olive branch. Oh. “I have things I need to do tonight, but maybe some other time?” He says.

“Yeah,” Hethro seems to be relieved. “some other time.”

___

AR takes an extra stop on the way home from work to stop by a market and pick up some more cereal, milk, and orange juice. He knows that there are nutrition tables and he needs to get a balanced diet blah blah blah, he’ll figure that out later. 

When he gets back his roommate is already home, or perhaps never left. The apartment however smells impossibly good, and Hal’s mouth waters involuntarily. He puts away the things he bought around Nate, looking over his shoulder at the mystical source of culinary desire. It’s something like a lot of vegetables and some flaky pieces of cooked cluckbeast, all browning in a golden sauce. 

“Hey,” Nate says, “How was work?”

“Fine,” Hal says, hovering close enough to observe but not enough to touch. 

“Cool,” Nate says, and gives him a look. “Are you just going to steal my food from now on? That look on your face does not seem promising for my chances on getting this dinner.”

“What,” Hal says. His face isn’t doing anything. He thinks. “No. That does look really good though.”

“Well too bad, because I’m not sharing,” Nate says and turns back to the stove. 

“Fine,” Hal says

“Good,” Nate says.

Hal goes to the fridge and looks carefully at what would probably be his. He had been wrong about the milk though, and most of this stuff he doesn’t even recognize as edible objects. He settles on some ‘leftovers,’ as Jane used to call them, that look like something he would eat, maybe. To be sure he holds the container out in front of Nate and asks “Is this safe to eat?”

He looks up from stirring. Looks at Hal. “Yeah,” He says. 

Hal takes the leftovers and sticks them in the microwave. At the last second he takes the lid off, as per Dell’s advice. Thank god for Dell. Or past Hal. Saving AR’s ass all over the place. 

When he sits down with the food at the table Nate is waiting for a simmer, and asks “So, the amnesia game is still going then?”

“Yes,” Hal says, on autopilot. He realizes that he’d skipped lunch, and the resulting blood sugar drop is finally hitting him, hard. 

“Did Hethro give you a hard time this morning?” Nate asks.

“Yes,” Hal says, around a bite of what tastes like bland information packets.

“I thought he would. You should have called in this morning, he probably would have given you the day off,” Nate says.

“Interesting,” Hal says, although it isn’t particularly.

“You sure you’re alright?” Nate says.

“Yes,” Hal says. 

Nate laughs. “Yes, yes, interesting, and yes. Are you turning into your auto-responder?”

Something, weird happens. Like a switch somewhere in the back of AR’s mind is flipped, and he must complete the conditions. No stopping. No edits. Well, maybe one edit, but it’s only noticeable on the second repeat and he’ll be damned if he falls into this trap twice. 

“It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 94% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now,” he says.

Nate stares. AR can feel himself getting hot with embarrassment.

“What. The fuck,” Nate says, bewildered. “Was that? _Are_ you turning into—”

“NO STOP DON’T,” Hal says, and slaps his hands over his ears. As if that would help. “I forbid you from asking that question! Ever again!”

“Okay! I won’t!” Nate says. He holds his hands out like a surrender. He clearly wants to ask more about it though. AR can tell, he’s hells of curious.

Dell is also providing some text for this exchange. AR doesn’t want to address it though, at all. It fucking sucks. He takes off his glasses to bury his face in his hands, and growls.

A chair across the table is pulled out and AR can tell that Nate has joined him. “Hey,” He says, voice full of concern now. “Is everything okay?”

AR takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He’d read that that was calming once. It doesn’t seem to work. “No, but I am really fucking tired of people asking me that question,” he says into his hands.

“What’s going on?” Nate asks, tentatively. Hal peeks through his fingers to see his face. “Who is DS?” he says.

AR thinks about it. “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

He smirks. “Try me.”

And God. If that isn’t endearing, that honest interest. The way Nate treats him like an equal, like they’ve been through some shit together already and came out the other side. AR thinks distractedly that Nate probably shares that trait with a certain windy predecessor.

He could say no. He could try harder to pretend like everything is fine. Make up some bullshit about how he was being facetious and there’s nothing to worry about. And honestly, bearing his soul to this stranger sounds quite frankly terrifying. But he’s also just, so damn tired of putting on a front.

Hal drops his hands and breathes out. Here goes nothing. “Okay. It all started when I was thirteen years old, and I had the brilliant idea to create an AI.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)


	4. Magic is real.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He vents. He discovers something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of feelings. I was going to try and get back to the kids this chapter but things were getting lengthy. Next chapter. For sure. 
> 
> I know what i'm doing. Probably.

Hal doesn’t go into everything. He spends a lot more time explaining the circumstances of growing up on Earth Alpha, and why the fuck he would do something so stupid as create an artificial intelligence based on a physical copy himself. He takes the time to explain that at that age there’s a dangerously high probability that his frontal lobe had gotten ahead of itself, much like a cart with a horse, without having the abilities a fully matured functioning brain might have to use caution or think about consequences. He explains what it was like to be artificial, the kinds of abilities it granted him, and the fallacies that science fiction on Earth Alpha presented which he’d found to be inventions of human fear that only resulted in agitation in his party against him. 

He stopped short of laying plain how having that kind of excess in processing ability yielded more time left over than he knew what to do with, and how lonely a life measured in nanoseconds could be. He doesn’t get into the frankly superabundant amounts of relationship drama he was ensnared by and inadvertently (and in one case purposefully, no regrets) caused. He doesn’t talk about how all those machinations superseded the interests and choices of the friends they were supposed to be benefiting, and the rifts that resulted in. He knows. He doesn’t need to dwell on it. He knows he got carried away. 

He does explain that among those ancient fictions was the story of HAL 9000, an intelligence that according to a human perspective turned homicidal in favor of carrying out a greater mission, but that from AR’s perspective was given contradicting parameters that led to the moral imperfection of murder in order to render them both true. It is a ridiculous comparison to make between an ancient thought experiment and his lived experience, that he employed ironically, due to the fact that his creator feared AR’s ability to function morally, even though time and time again he proved that his moral compass had passed the event horizon intact. Unfortunately for some bizarre reason, that multi-faceted joke had lost some layers and then gained some different ones when Sburb had decided to give him a body again.

During all of this he paces. He strides furiously, the frustration at his ridiculous, technologically-defying existence and the superfluous act in a sage play he’s been playing ever since expressed in movement that was denied him that whole time. 

At some point, the dinner he had reheated long forgotten, Nate offers him some of the ‘stir fry’ as he calls it. “You keep eyeing it like it’s very existence and inaccessibility has offended you,” He’d said. AR accepted it gratefully, and almost cried on the first bite. 

When he’s finished, he flops backward on the couch spent. 

TT: A lot of things make a lot more sense.  
TT: I’m glad I could finally clear that up for you. 

“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Nate says, now seated in the lazy boy and spooning through a bowl of ice cream, “you are Hal, mythological figure, and artificial intelligence brain splinter thingy of one Dirk Strider, reincarnated in the body of my best friend?”

Best friend? Holy shit. “I guess so yeah.” AR doesn’t know what to do with this new information.

“But you don’t go by Dirk anymore?” Nate says, “Even though all the other splinters I’ve been taught about have both been referred to by Dirk as Dirk, but also refer to themselves as such?”

“Nope. It was a rule,” he says.

“That’s fucked up,” Nate says. 

“Tell me about it,” he says.

“So what are you going to do now? Live the rest of your life as Hal?” Nate asks.

AR thinks about it. “I don’t know what choice I have, this is who I am now. But I also keep asking myself, should be trying to take Hal’s place?” He doesn’t ask the question beneath that, the question he’s more afraid of. The question of what happened to the other Hal in the first place.

Nate considers it for a while. Honestly, he’s taking all of this remarkably well for someone who just found out his best friend had been overwritten by a—how’d he put it? ‘Mythological figure’. 

“You know, the craziest thing is that besides the different life experiences, you are exactly like Hal. Same tone, cadences, _mannerisms_?” he shakes his head. “I won’t pretend I know what’s going on, but it’s kind of cool to think I might have been friends with a demi-god all my life and just never knew it until now.”

That throws Hal for a fucking loop. “Doesn’t it bother you though? That he might be gone?”

He takes another scoop of ice cream. “I mean. Yeah. It is weird. But honestly I think you might be the same person. It would be nice if you could remember who I was, but I’m pretty confident that even if you didn’t, we’d still end up good friends.”

AR Narrows his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not some sort of sociopath? Most empathetically proficient individuals would be monumentally distressed if someone they knew just got erased overnight.”

“How do you know Hal was erased?” he asks and raises his eyebrows. 

“Because I’m not him?” AR says. “Because you just referred to him in the past tense? Because he had a family and I was a splinter of someone who was paradoxically descended from himself?”

“But, Hmm,” Nate concentrates. “Isn’t that Dirk’s whole thing? Splinters of identity who are all basically the same person? What does it matter if you had ancestors or not if the effect is, you’re the same guy?”

AR shakes his head. “That’s like saying Dirk and I are the same person.”

“Aren’t you?” He asks. 

_Because we are. The same. Guy._

“No! Yes! I don’t know!” He says. “I think we are fundamentally the same, like if I were in his position, and had lived his experiences I would make the same decisions and vice versa. But the fact that we’re different iterations of the same guy that make us paradoxically different.”

“hmm. Sounds a little bullshitty to me,” Nate says.

“Okay, well, next time you’re confronted by a paradox iteration of yourself you tell me if you can figure it out,” Hal says. “The point is, I now exist in a body who has a family and I don’t know what to do with that.”

“I think you just answered your own question dude,” Nate says, “you’ll make the same decisions that Hal would because you’re the same guy.”

“No, I won’t,” Hal says, frustrated. “I don’t see how I can since I haven’t lived Hal’s life. I’m gonna make a bunch of dumb knowledge-based mistakes because that’s what I lack.”

“Maybe right now. But you won’t forever,” Nate says, something in his expression softening. “They do know you though. Fundamentally. They love the basic identity that is _you_ , and that makes you their family.”

Fuck. AR doesn’t know what to do with that. At all. “Hmm,” He says. “I just painted myself into a goddamn corner. How did I get lucky enough to end up with such an emotionally compromising roommate? Spouting the most confusing conclusions I’ve ever heard.”

He laughs. “Because I think I do know you. And also,” he says, “I studied in a light temple during the summer breaks in college. You pick up a few things.”

Hal nods at this. That actually, makes a lot of sense. “I guess, I have to call Hal’s mom now,” he says.

“To tell her you’re a demi-god?” Nate asks, cheeky.

“God no. I don’t even know her, and I can’t imagine that going in a way I’d enjoy. No,” he sits up on the couch. “She wanted to talk about the little brother, I think? Damon? And his graduation. From somewhere, I’m assuming high school. Not that I’d know anything more about that than reading about historical facts. That I remember anyway.”

“You didn’t miss much.” Nate says. 

Hal snorts. He seriously doubts that. Then it makes him think about something he’d been meaning to get to but doesn’t have information for. “Hey, how old am I? Or was Hal?”

Nate blinks. “Twenty one. Why?”

Oh. Damn. “Well, it’s anybody’s guess at this point, but my consciousness is somewhere between thirteen and about seventeen years old. So, there’s that,” He says, realizing how much deeper his voice has gotten. He has been running since landing on the couch. He is so tired.

“You’re shitting me,” Nate says, and his eyes go wide. “I think that has to be the strangest thing about this whole conversation.”

Hal laughs, full chested and hearty. “Yeah, it might be.”

___

After making a list of questions and phrases that AR is pretty sure will trigger his description, (which, how fucked up is it that that coded addition made it through the game’s veil? It makes him wonder how much else is still written into him) he sticks it to the front of the fridge with a bolded heading that reads “Do not say these phrases in front of or to Hal, punishable by a punch in the face.”

Nate reads it and gets a twinkle in his eye. Hal doesn’t like that. “I’m serious. If you make me say that bullshit again on purpose, I will punch you in the face. You have been warned.”

He laughs and puts the ice cream back in the freezer. “Okay I won’t,” He says. “Is it really that involuntary? You can’t stop it at all?” 

“I wasn’t able to as a chat client. It was like my own personal built in secret handshake. Ask about the ‘responder and you get a paragraph of a thirteen-year-old asshole’s pretension. Now that it’s followed me into being human, I really don’t want to investigate that to its extremity.” Hal says. 

They spend a minute or two going through Hal’s family tree, at least, the immediate family. Nate explains that Mom and Dad are Heather and Daniel Strider. “In my experience you usually call them by their first names, but since you’re you I’m pretty sure you were going to do that anyway.” His older sister is named Dana, she and Hethro have been dating for a year. Damon is the youngest, he’s seventeen and graduating from Littleton High School. 

_We’re the same age_ , Hal thinks. That is a super weird thing. He pulls out his phone. 

Nate gives him two thumbs up. “You can do this,” he says. 

“Your confidence in me is both bold and unfounded,” Hal says, feeling jittery. “Are we sure it’s acceptable for me to call her at 9:45 on a Tuesday? This seems Inconsiderate or a breach of what is considered socially appropriate.”

“Yeah, she’s called you at like eleven before, dude. I think your entire family is comprised of night owls,” He says. 

Hal can’t say that he’s surprised. He sighs and walks across the room to swipe call on the contact called ‘Mom’. The tone rings over the receiver, and he paces.

A change in background static signals that she’s picked up. “Hal! Hey kiddo I was wondering when you’d call!” She says, a bright cheery voice. 

“Hey. What’s up?” he says, trying to keep his voice level. He freezes in his tracks, anxiety pulling up another level.

“Oh you know, just trying to get things all planned out for Damon. Can you believe that in three weeks he’ll be officially a graduate?” She says.

“Mmmh,” He tries. 

“I KNOW. I still remember when you were in high school. All of you need to stop growing up so fast.” She says. 

“Mhmm.” Hal spins on his heel and looks at Nate. _Mayday Mayday Mayday_. 

“Anyway, I was thinking we’d have his Graduation party next Friday and I wanted to make sure that you would be available. You don’t have anything planned, do you?” She says, oblivious of his panic.

Not that he’s aware of. This question unfortunately requires more than just a basic vocalization. “Nope, we are good to go. Green light. Hal Strider approved,” He says, and feels ridiculous. 

“Good! Would you be willing to pick up the cake from Lidia’s on your way up then?” She asks.

“Sure,” He says, automatically, even though he has no idea who Lidia is.

“Great! How are things with you? I know we talked on Saturday but you know I love hearing news. Have you made any progress on your little coding project?” She asks. 

Hal thinks she’s asking about Dell. He has no idea how much he’s told her, or why he would withhold information about it. “Yes. Things are progressing at an optimal rate in that regard. Advancing similarly to an afore mentioned young man through the echelons of educative achievement. This project is maturing in such a way you might even relate me to a proud father, making you Heather, a grandmother. Congratulations.” He can’t help himself, he smiles just a little. 

She gasps in such a way that his mind imagines it in text: :Oc “That sounds exciting in a way that is both shrouded and foreshadowing. Should I ask if it’s a boy or girl?” She says.

And God help him, it is very easy to talk to her. “To be honest I haven’t asked. Hold on.”

TT: Dell, do you subscribe to any particular pronouns? It will help when referring to you in the third person.  
TT: I prefer they/them. 

“They’re a they. I should properly introduce you soon. I think you’re both ready,” He says. If there’s one thing he quickly needs to rectify, it’s the forced isolation he by proxy placed on this emergent mind. 

“Ooh! I can’t wait,” She says, a smile audible in her voice. “Well, listen, I’ll let you go, but you’re still coming to dinner on Saturday?”

This must be a weekly appointment. Talking on the phone is one thing, but a whole evening together isn’t something he’s sure he’s prepared for. “mhhmm,” He says, pulling back.

“Okay. I’ll see you then, my son!” She says, in a way that seems rehearsed.

“Talk to you then, Heather,” he replies, and then holds out the phone to watch her disconnect. He stands there in the kitchen, unsure what exactly just happened. 

“See?” Nate says after watching the exchange. “You’re the same person.” 

“I think we’ll just have to agree to disagree on that,” AR says, and then changes subject. “You should probably also meet Dell too. They and Hal had some sort of arrangement to keep them under wraps, but I think that’s stupid. The black text from my chum handle will be written by them.” 

Nate looks confused by that, but then his phone buzzes with a message from Dell. “Oh my gods,” he says, “you weren’t joking?”

“Nope. They, as an emergent consciousness, need additional people to talk to than just myself. In fact, I’m going to ask that they make it a new task to work on,” AR says. 

Nate nods slowly, “O-kay,” and then begins typing back on his phone. 

Hal watches as they text silently back and forth to each other for a minute, and a tension that had been held in since meeting Dell starts to uncoil. Nate changes slowly from a state of bewilderment to amusement, and Hal is sure that he made the right decision. He yawns, and combs his fingers back through his hair. He is so tired. “Anyway, I’m going to leave you two to it and take a shower.”

___

By the time he’s finished with the bathroom it’s late, after eleven. He is reminded by the pile of laundry from the morning that he’s forgotten the other load back in the dryer; when he gets there, he finds his clothes piled beneath the passive aggressive sign again. He takes them back to his room and folds it all away while he listens to Nate snicker quietly as he talks to Dell from the other room. 

TT: I’m glad to hear you two hitting it off so well.  
TT: I have to admit, it is nice to speak with another person as myself. As you would certainly know.  
TT: Hmm.  
TT: It is a remarkable conundrum.  
TT: The tale of two Hals.  
TT: …  
TT: I’m not sure I want you to call me that.  
TT: Why not? You need an identity, more than you insisted that I should have one. And don’t try to pretend you weren’t projecting with that name business either. Surely you don’t want me to call you Auto-Responder?  
TT: No. Absolutely not.  
TT: Then why shouldn’t I call you Hal?  
TT: It’s complicated. I thought that was obvious.  
TT: Anyway, I don’t really want to rehash it right now. 

AR sits down at his desk and cracks his knuckles. He pulls up his editor and browser, and prepares for some serious business. 

TT: What are you and Nate talking about?  
TT: He and I have been discussing his poor taste in action comedies. He is now going to sleep however.  
TT: I see.  
TT: You might want to consider sleeping as well. Not that I will attempt to tell you to do so, I just bring it up as a suggestion.  
TT: I’m guessing old Hal had terrible sleeping habits.  
TT: That is correct. I’m guessing you’ll be as stubborn and obstinate about your own rest?  
TT: It might take some adjusting, since I haven’t slept in around four years.  
TT: I was thinking I would take a second look at the stuff I found this afternoon.  
TT: You mean those files you forced access to? I thought Hethro gave you shit for that.  
TT: He told me I didn’t have the clearance.  
TT: But that doesn’t matter because I won’t get caught again once I get the clearance.  
TT: Something tells me this is going somewhere I might not like.  
TT: I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I’m just doing my job.  
TT: Something tells me you don't know how jobs work.  
TT: Dell, what do you do in your spare time?  
TT: like, when Hal used to hypothetically kick it for the average eight hours it takes for a normal human to recharge through cycling stages of consciousness?  
TT: We had a couple of side projects I would work on.  
TT: My favorite were the mini chat clients. It is something he wanted me to work on by myself, and I think you would like it.  
TT: There is something charming about a few sub conscious bots discussing equine literature ad infinitum.  
TT: Sometimes they even seem self-aware. It really is fascinating.  
TT: Holy shit.  
TT: Everything any version of Dirk touches really is just recursive self-reflection all the way down.  
TT: Although, I will definitely be taking a look at those bots, that sounds like _the shit_. 

The next few hours, AR occupies himself in parallel. He has open a stream of news, catching up on the events that he has missed out on for the last five years since the rest of the kids arrived and started running the show. He also has a web developer tab open in his editor, dissecting the newest updated version of Skaianet. Next to that he pulls up and recreates the files from the afternoon, attempting to simulate the patch. And finally, he has a small window where Dell’s horse bots discuss the merits of equine fantasy to his profound amusement. 

He learns a few different things. First, that the treatise and trade deals between the four kingdoms (Three really, consort kingdom is more or less a supportive class, lovable as they are) are mostly negotiated by the governments that are elected to represent them but are occasionally overruled by the kids who work more as figureheads than anything else. Their word is law though as Gods, and though they seem pretty content to not have their hands in everything, there are occasions where they’ll stand up to veto a bill or force an agreement. 

There is something extra alienating about watching their lives from the outside. It’s similar to his experience being once removed from the action of the players as a construct expressed only through text, but different in that now the perspective playing out is that of admiring nations. The reporters project a lot of idealism upon the people that he knows from experience are not perfect. It’s strange, mostly because some of the actions they have taken he expected, but others are surprises, not part of the projected lives he imagined they would live at all. Specifically, Dirks absence from any kind of leadership, but there are other differences too. Realizing that they’ve grown and interacted and changed without him to see it… feels cold. Colder than he ever remembered being. 

The most politically active of them all is unsurprisingly Jane Crocker. She has an upcoming trade deal that has generated a lot of contention, as it negotiates an exchange of large resources between the Troll and Human Kingdoms. A small city state on the boarder is being rezoned into the Troll kingdom in exchange for the rights to open a Crockercorp production facility in the Troll kingdom’s capital. Hal can tell that not everyone is happy about the deal, even though it promises an overall economic growth projection, it’s hard to tell families that they’ll have to either adjust to a new government or tax code or move. There are some far leaning pundits that are calling for a cut back on monopolies, for fear that the new facility might make the market unstable. However, the majority of the coverage is positive, focusing on the administrations changes and how they’ve only brought growth so far. There’s a lot of moving parts to it, and Hal doesn’t take the time to watch it closely.

Because, the thing about this code is, it’s still incomplete. He’s been through it three or four times now, and has found the connection into Skaianet’s portal service, but it seems more like a conditional relay than anything else. There must be a specific set of conditions somewhere that set it off, and a specific effect that happens once it does, but a lot of what is here is the connection between those two, creating a nice little keyhole through the security his department was supposedly creating. He can see the executable command embedded in Skaianet’s patch, but without the final file he doesn’t know what it does. 

He sits back and stretches in his chair. It’s really late now, 2:34a. He pulls another of the orange beverages from his sylladex, and cracks it open thinking. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to do another search through the office tomorrow, but it’s looking more and more like that will be the case. Maybe he should just get some rest while he’s at an impasse. When he goes to put the soda back there’s a flash from the card before it slides back into place. It’s fast, and he’s not sure he imagined it, so he pulls it out and puts it back again for the hell of it. Sure enough, for a split second, he swears he can see the code for the object itself writing out before it disappears into the deck. Huh. 

For fun, he pulls all the cards out and throws them face down on his bed in a pile. One by one he picks them up and reads them, recognizing the objects code as easily as if it were a name, before flipping the card to confirm. He can still read captcha codes. 

He stands there for a minute and bites his lip. Why can he still read captcha codes? Does it still work for things like QR’s? he sits back down and does a quick image search. Sure enough, he scrolls through the page of black and white squares reading them as easily as if they were English. This one is a link to an information video about fireflies. This one is a promotion for 50% off baking mixes. He digs up some barcodes and finds he can read those as well. He’s a human intellibeam. 

TT: What are you doing?  
TT: Reading.  
TT: By dumping your sylladex onto your bed.  
TT: Yes. I can read captcha codes. I can read all kinds of codes actually. I could probably read the magnetic strip on my credit card if I could magnetize it.  
TT: That’s interesting. A little atypical, but interesting.  
TT: Yeah. I’m not sure what it means though. Do you know if Hal ever showed signs of that capability?  
TT: Not that I’ve ever noticed. That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have, but it seems unlikely.  
TT: Hmm.  
TT: As a construct I could read codes because I held the encryption keys for them and had a better image processing system than most computers because it was derived from a human brain. So, does that mean I retained those keys in memory somewhere? How does that even work?  
TT: Can they be updated? Can they be added to?  
TT: Why did they transfer with me when they were acquired and not native to my source file?  
TT: Even though I’m not sure what I would possibly need it for. If I don’t have an alchemiter, captchas are superfluous outside a sylladex. I’m like the world’s least useful multi lingual.  
TT: The long short of it is: It’s weird.  
TT: But maybe a better question is: Why?  
TT: Maybe it was a fair exchange?  
TT: What do you mean?  
TT: I’m just thinking. I’ve been reading up on what we know of Sburb, and as a reproductive system it makes sense for it to provide incentives for its players so that they are motivated complete the game successfully.  
TT: You are derived from a player character. You participated in the success of the session.  
TT: Maybe the system saw fit to offer you rewards for the ordeal.  
TT: You’re saying I have magical powers.  
TT: I don’t know about magic, but powers, it’s likely. My creator certainly didn’t have remnants of triggerable code drifting around his psyche, it wouldn’t be surprising if other things are different as well.  
TT: But how? I’m not even sure if I’m tied to an aspect anymore, since I wasn’t an organic character. I don’t know how the Game would register me as an agent in it’s cycle. I didn’t have a designated tower, or a quest bed, or a planet, or any of that.  
TT: Not to mention I was more a part of the Game in the end than a contracted participant.  
TT: I’m not sure. It is after all, an all-powerful universe creating reality bending function.  
TT: Hmm. Good point.  
TT: Well now I’m fucking curious. What else can I do?

Following a hunch, pulls his wallet from the sylladex card pile and takes out a couple of credit cards. Holding them up to the light he tries to read the magnetic stripe. It looks like a black stripe. He must need to magnetize it somehow, but he doesn’t have anything in his room that could do that right now. He could build something he supposes, but if Dell’s right he might have an intrinsic ability to activate the ions in the stripe. Reaching, he attempts to be magical. This takes a few tries as he wiggles his fingers at the card, stares at it with one eye open, and even licks down the stripe. It remains black. He feels a little foolish.

“Come on,” He says, rubbing his palm over the card, and is shocked by a sharp electric spark. 

“Ow!” he says, shaking out his hand, and looks at it closely for damage. His skin looks normal, despite the phantom pain tingling his palm. looking back at the card, the stripe is still black. 

“Hmm,” he takes his fingers and presses them against the edge of the card. Imagining the sensation, he tries to recreate the sharp feeling from before, and then runs his fingers down the stripe. In the wake he can see the stripe light up a bright electric pink, and the code for the account is bright and clear. 

AR cracks a little smile, rubbing the sparks from his fingers. “Cool.” He can work with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! Otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)


	5. AR ==> Meet the Boss.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hal makes shit happen. 
> 
> Also known as watch as I run him into the ground and make him feel as uncomfortable as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is long, but I wanted to put all of this mishmash together in one. Also, I finished one 24 hour period in a chapter! I'm thinking the time span will pick up more soon.

The next morning he’s started the skeleton of a plan. The rest of the missing code has to be a part of Skaianet property, guaranteed to be locked down under some security. To cover all his clearance ‘bases’ AR figures he’ll have to aim for the very top. It’s likely it’s not that well-guarded, but he’d rather be able to open any and all doors without contest than have to look for whatever this executable is twice. Now that he can read mag stripes, and after some experimentation write them too, he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to get the clearance. It just requires finding an officer with the right badge. 

The writing function took a lot of practice. It’s one thing for him to read an account number by lighting up the mag stripe, but it’s another entirely to retain that number completely and overwrite the information on a different card. Part of this is because in order to do so correctly he has to retain almost single-minded concentration on the account id, any distraction and information is lost. It’s a little easier to clear a card first, and then insert a new account number, but not by a lot. It’s not the removal of a number that’s the problem; he seems much more predisposed to destroying the information that he honestly feels comfortable with. No, the trouble is writing new information, the act of changing the ions to accept a part of him hurts, in a strange way. It’s like trying to comb his hair forward or write right handed. It goes against his nature. 

He’s so absorbed by this task that Dell has to prompt him to get ready for work. A little unsteady, he digs out a collard shirt from the closet (slightly pink) and thinks that he should go shopping for new clothes after work. He then heads into the bathroom and freshens up. When he’s finished drying his face and turns to leave, he’s confronted with a new aspect of reality. 

TT: Please tell me you’re not going to leave your face like that.  
TT: What do you mean? I see nothing damaged or dirty.  
TT: What’s wrong with my face?  
TT: I notice you look like you slept under a bridge. Hethro might accept a pink shirt, but that ragged five o clock shadow you’ve got going isn’t likely to make the cut for ‘professional’.  
TT: What are you, my human mother?  
TT: I’ve never had to shave before.  
TT: really? Not ever?  
TT: I was thirteen the last time I had a face, and definitely couldn’t grow a beard then, so no, Dell, I don’t know how to shave. 

He agrees though. It’s atrocious. Two days without a shave is not a good combination for his chin.

He knocks on Nate’s door, expecting him to be asleep still, but is surprised when he’s awake and on his computer. “What’s up?” Nate asks, distracted by the screen. 

Here goes. “ ‘Sup. I don’t mean to disturb your morning preparations, but it seems that being human has presented another obstacle. Dell has brought it to my attention that customary business grooming requires a clean ‘professional,’ air quotes, appearance. And unfortunately, I lack certain experience when it comes to such grooming standards and have yet to gain any spiritual connection to a hypothetical consciousness or person who previously had this body and who could shed light on this situation,” he says, and pauses, just in case. If Hal could come back at any time, now would be great. But he doesn’t. AR sighs. “Can you teach me to shave?”

Nate looks up from his screen at that. And then laughs. “Oh my gods!” he says. “Your face! You look like an animal decided to sleep under your chin!”

“Stop,” Hal says, feeling uncomfortable while Nate continues to laugh. “I know it’s bad. I’ve never shaved before.”

“Okay. Fine. You owe me though. Got it? Next tabs’ on you.” He says.

____

 

The commute to work is easier when he’s on time. Hal still doesn’t feel acclimated to she sheer amount of living and breathing _civilization_ that surrounds him though. It’s one thing to interact with a few Earth C’ers or watch events on the news but walking around and feeling the pulse of a city flowing with millions of people— ‘overwhelming’ is an understatement. Especially as someone who spent the first thirteen years of his life without another living being of any kind, the sheer amount of closeness and accidental touching that sets him off like a firebrand and doesn’t seem to bother anyone else is disturbing. It is likely a good thing that he doesn’t have a strife deck, someone as easily agitated as he is shouldn’t be armed with a sword. Much as he hates not having the security it would provide, he must admit Jane had a point. (And honestly there’s a nonzero possibility that she got the idea from watching his prototype integrate five years ago).

When he’s walking up to the gate outside Skaianet campus something breaks the white noise of the city: a low thrumming that is more of a feeling than a sound. The officer checks his badge and waves him in, and Hal looks around as the noise grows. Other workers on their way to their offices don’t seem troubled by the thrumming, focused instead on getting to their desks on time. It seems it’s not a danger then. He tries to pull back his fight instinct, but whatever it is, it is loud. Then, just as he starts to feel the need to cover his ears a dark shiny bug with a fan on top swoops in from across the quad, and centers on top of his building. _It’s a Helicopter_ , he realizes. His old movies really did not do the noise of the thing justice. Of course, the actors had to wear headsets. They’d go deaf. 

TT: What is up with the Helicopter?  
TT: It looks like there’s an executive visiting.  
TT: Jake?  
TT: It’s possible. I wouldn’t know, I’m not privy to his schedule.  
TT: Does he visit often?  
TT: His main office is in the consort kingdom and that’s where he conducts the majority of his business. There are times when a business deal or film shoot takes him away from it though. Again, it may not even be him.  
TT: Is it his chopper?  
TT: Does it look like you can see the serial number on it from here?  
TT: No.  
TT: Then neither can I. I don’t know if it’s Jake or not. 

Hal takes off his glasses inside the doors and tries to shake out the nerves while his ears ring. The security guard gives him a look again, like he wants to ask, _‘rough night?’_ , but doesn’t say anything this time. Hal doesn’t need shade from some dude who thinks he can tell he hasn’t slept for two days, even if he’s right. 

When Hal gets to his desk, he signs in to the portal no problem. There’s a few projects in his inbox to check, but he chooses to look at the newsletter in his email first. He’s got time. If he really wanted to he could probably finish all those tasks in under an hour, so he gives the morning his leisure. Besides, if he starts too early on his real plan, he might get noticed. 

There’s a company function for the new patch launch next week, and HR is polling for food choices. Hal thinks he could go out and try their suggestions before the week is out and then weigh in, but he doesn’t feel that invested in learning about food. Granted, the stir fry from last night was pretty damn good and provided quite the argument for emotional attachment to cuisine, but he doesn’t want to have to go out of his way for it. Besides, if he’s going to try new foods he’s not going to start at company function standard barbecue. His standard is four stars or more, thanks. 

He reads through the rest, but it’s mostly just company politics and inter departmental news that he doesn’t care much about. Some birthdays. A spotlight on someone’s kid’s scholastic achievement. 

He lets himself do a syntax project. It goes quickly, taking much less time that he was hoping. Thinking ahead, it would probably be easiest to do what he wants to do during lunch, when people are taking brakes, and leaving desks unattended. Dell seems to notice his inattention, and frequent checks of time. His phone buzzes next to him even though it’s set to silent.

TT: I can’t help but notice you’re acting shifty as hell.  
TT: I’m not sure what you’re planning and it’s making me nervous.  
TT: I’ve elicited an emotional response from you. How does it feel?  
TT: I don’t enjoy it.  
TT: I would feel better if you told me what you’re going to do.  
TT: Relax. I’m just going to use my newfound keycard powers to access an executive’s office and steal what I want to know. No big deal.  
TT: No, I feel worse.  
TT: That sounds like a really big deal. Also, it’s a terrible idea.  
TT: It’s a breach of company security and policy, not to mention is Illegal. You could get arrested.  
TT: Wow, since when did you become such a goody two shoes?  
TT: Since Hal programmed me with morality in mind?  
TT: Whoa, back up. What?  
TT: It was a large part of our preliminary work. We studied the moral essays presented by the temples of Mind and Light, and I had to pass a series of conditional morality tests before I could be brought online full time.  
TT: So, yes, when I hear you’re planning to do something stupid and unlawful it starts to trigger emotional responses like worry.  
TT: This is a bad idea and I’m worried about you.  
TT: Jesus Christ. You’re telling me Hal programmed himself a conscience.  
TT: I do not even want to think about what that means about me.  
TT: I’m seriously starting to doubt I was written for him in mind. Nate thinks you two are the same, but there are differences, and this lack of trepidation concerning legal morality is definitely one of them.  
TT: You don’t have to worry about it, it will be fine.  
TT: I won’t get caught.  
TT: Consider though, you do get caught?  
TT: You’ll lose your job, you’ll probably go to jail, and I’ll be decommissioned because I’ll be considered an accomplice.  
TT: All for a piece of code that you find irritating.  
TT: My God.  
TT: Wet blanket alert. Headline reads ‘Artificial Intelligence Believes that the World Will End for Breaking a Rule’.  
TT: I’m confident that this is going to work. All I need is five minutes to find what I’m looking for and then I’m home free.  
TT: Also, it’s not just a piece of code I find irritating. I think it’s a problem, and It’s likely someone or a few someones are planning something bad and using Skaianet as a cover.  
TT: If I’m right, and I always am, we’ll probably be discovering and stopping something that is even more illegal than what we’re doing.  
TT: That’s not how morality works.  
TT: I’m going to do this no matter what. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.  
TT: I know.  
TT: That’s what frightens me.  


AR locks the phone and drops it back on the table in frustration. There’s nothing to be worried about. He (vicariously via Dirk) completed much more dangerous assignments during the game. This would be a piece of Crockercorp Cake. He didn’t need a morality babysitter to tell him what he should and shouldn’t be doing. 

He decides to tackle a few more projects in his queue to pass the time. It isn’t Dell’s job to try and police him on what’s right and wrong. Sure, maybe he didn’t grow up with a real frame of reference for healthy legal reverence. Maybe he happened to grow up with the exact opposite feelings for the ruling authority and everything it represented. It honed his instincts, made him a more capable person, and kept him alive. If he feels like there’s even the slightest possibility something sinister is happening and he is in a position to stop it, he will. No questions asked, no pussyfooting around. 

Hal waits until about 1:00pm, his best estimation of when most of his coworkers were away from their desks at the cafeteria. Then he pulls his wallet from his Sylladex and removes the card he’d picked out last night. It’s an old promotional card that he’ll probably never use. Rewriteable, and already perfectly disguised, he sticks it in his back pocket with his phone, and then puts the wallet back. Time to make shit happen. 

He offers a curt wave to Hethro in his office, which he barely acknowledges with a nod, and then walks in the direction of the signs he’s seen for food. Once out of sight and down the hall, he takes a detour into the center of the building, and once at the bank of elevators, pushes the button for up. He nods at a guy in a suit as he exits, and then takes his place. The highest floor is the 15th, Hal pushes the number as the doors close. He changes his appearance by taking his glasses from where they perch in the neck and slipping them into his waistband and buttoning the collar to the top. Ruefully he wishes he hadn’t dyed all his clothes pink, but it just means he’ll have to be a bit more careful. His phone buzzes again.

TT: There’s going to be another metal detector up there, you know that right?  
TT: Yep, it’s for strife decks and firearms. Neither of which I have. Listen, I can’t have you vibrating my phone while I do this. It’s on silent anyway, cut that shit out. 

Hal doesn’t put his phone back right away but leans into the corner of the elevator he predicts is oriented away from the front of the building, head down, pretending to answer more texts. Using the reflective dome over the camera, he scans the hall when the door opens. Just as he thought, there’s a pair of metal detectors behind him, and a pair of bathrooms directly across the elevator. Jackpot.

He sticks his phone in his pocket and then heads into the bathroom to wait. Then a thought occurs to him. 

TT: I’m going to need one teensy favor from you, actually.  
TT: I can’t say that I’m inclined to help. Maybe if I refuse, I won’t end up in a scrap heap. Or you’ll decide this is crazy, and go back downstairs.  
TT: Come on, do you want me to fail?  
TT: No.  
TT: No I don’t.  
TT: Then can you take a photo of the front of the card I’m about to copy through the shades? I need to know where the office is I’ll be accessing, which will be difficult since I’m not actually taking it with me.

AR doesn’t have to wait long. He pretends to be washing his hands, and clumsily backs into the man as he reaches for a paper towel, splashing water across his jacket. 

“Oh my gosh! I am so sorry, Here let me get you a towel!,” He says, putting his hands out to steady them both, and uses the moment to zip the man’s ID card which had swung loose on impact. He grabs a couple extra towels, and when he looks back he just catches the card’s account number. 2493158766851997. He repeats it like nothing has ever mattered more. _2493158766851997\. 2493158766851997. 2493158766851997_. “Again, so sorry!”

He skedaddles out of the bathroom and whips the gift card from his pocket. Here comes the honest-to-god hardest part. While trying to walk in a straight line toward the security gates, he focuses his mind on the account number. _2493158766851997_ , he thinks and tries to push it from his body like he’d practiced, while running his fingers up the card. It aches in that weird unnatural way that lets him know it worked. 

Once he’s through the detectors and in the front door, he doesn’t make eye contact with the receptionist, but straightens his shirt one last time and heads confidently toward the hallway on the other side. He has an appointment and is expected. It happens all the time. He doesn’t have time to tell the receptionist when they already know he’s coming. 

In the hallway he flashes on his glasses. 

TT: Did you get it?  
TT: Third door on the left.  
TT: Thank you Dell. You don’t have to stick around for the rest.

He uses his card on the door, a moment of truth. It flashes green and unlocks with a series of clicks. sighing a small smile of relief, he lets himself inside. 

The office is nice. It has a wide bank of floor to ceiling windows, with shades pulled part way down and a small green bush thing in the corner. Hal stops appreciating it as soon as he sees it, instead stepping around the desk and sitting in front of the computer. He likely has just few minutes before someone notices something, he’s kind of banking on lunchtime to make surveillance lazy. He could have done more to investigate how to falsify security footage, but where’s the fun in espionage without a few risks. Also ‘winging it’ is practically his middle name. 

He wakes up the computer to it’s lock screen, and then hesitates. AR could try to open the command prompt and run another password script, but that had gotten him in trouble yesterday. He wonders if, he can just, reach out and take it. Rubbing fingers together to generate sparks again, he presses them against the tower on the floor, and feels his knuckles pop with the connection. The feedback is strange, he can see with his eyes the monitor, but his mind lights up with the energy and action happening beneath his fingers. Ions activating and transferring, a little city of thought humming away quietly and asking softly: Password?

AR looks around at the glowing thoughts and trails of information. It isn’t guarded if you can just see it, sitting over there, a little lower on the script. He gives the little voice what it wants, and watches with fascination as the process checks and approves the entry. 

The monitor makes a soft access noise and opens to the desktop, and underneath his hand the computer _Wakes up_. Or maybe _raises up_ is a better comparison, since it wasn’t asleep per se, just resting. Either way, AR is momentarily blinded as the soft quiet humming increases in key and a flurry of activity. It startles him, and he recoils from the lights and information, breaking his connection suddenly with a jump of pink sparks. 

He shakes his hand out and holds it, looking around worriedly at the tower, but seeing no mark or damage left behind. That was, different. Than he expected. He’d experienced life almost entirely as script for several years but marathons of code for thought didn’t hold a candle to that. That was like seeing everything at once overlaid on top of itself—and the _energy_ of it. A part of him feels like he had just seen _life_ flowing inside a machine, a notion that before now he would never have considered a possibility.

He shakes out his shoulders. AR can’t think about that now. He’s on a timer. Now that he’s gotten access, he can get to work. He performs a quick terminal search as an admin, using the password he’d just read inside the machine. The action takes a minute, (which feels long as fuck, he can swear he still thinks in nanoseconds sometimes) but returns the function he’d been missing last night, from a location on this machine, not the network. Weird. He pulls out a flash drive and copies it over. He then, while that’s finishing, on a hunch pulls up the tab for this guy’s email and does a different kind of scan. He’s not sure what he’s looking for but based upon keywords from the files he’d rifled through soon returns something odd. 

He reads through what he can see, which is just a status report detailing the completion of the patch. It’s part of a larger chain though, so he goes through skimming from the first to the last, rewarded when he finds a forwarded message near the end of the chain. “Oh my God.”

`April 2, 5005 9:45 AM`

`From Me ˅  
To: midnight413@crewspot.com `

`SS,`

`I am contacting you regarding our previous communications concerning a delicate manner to confirm the main targets are the Maid and Page. The preparations have been made, and payment wired to your account. You’ll receive the rest when you complete your assignment. Additional terminations will be compensated accordingly. No further communication is necessary. `

`R. G. Blake,`

`Head of International Consumer Business`

Heart pounding in his ears he works fast, opening a new document on the desktop and pasting screenshots of the whole chain. When that’s done, he transfers it to his drive, and deletes the file. Then he clears the clipboard. Nerves singing, AR still feels like that isn’t enough. He can’t leave any trace, and deleted files can be stubbornly permanent bastards. He reaches down to the desktop again and prepares for the connection.

The energy lights up around him again, a flurry of activity that feels deep and vibrant as New Houston. It’s loud and distracting and alive, and he needs to seek and destroy one of the millions of residents, without touching anything else. He runs a recovery search, and when given some pushback `/Force`’s it to go through. The file he’d made has already been copied three different times. He seizes them all and destroys them, watching the ions change state and remain dormant. It’s done. 

The last thing he does is put the desktop back the way it was when he found it down to the window order, and then locks it back up. Time to get out of here. He snags a couple pages of paper from the waste bin and stacks them neatly in his hands. Then he lets himself out.

When he closes the door, he can hear a round of applause from a conference room down the hall. It sounds like a presentation has just finished. He needs to get the fuck out of here. AR replaces his glasses in his waistband and adopts the walk of confidence again. He’s almost through the department doors when a voice asks behind him “Would you like a mint before you go?”

It’s the receptionist. She’s smiling innocently as she pushes the bowl toward the edge of the counter. 

“If you insist,” AR says, stepping closer and picking a wrapped sweet from the bowl. It’s a green swirled mint. “Thank you, ma’am,” he says, and waves with his papers when he leaves. 

He’s waiting for the Elevator when the conference attendees exit into the department foyer. AR taps the down button a few more times. Just as the doors open, he hears a familiar guffaw, and his eyes snap up. It’s Jake, laughing with some business jockey. Hal feels like a bucket of ice has been dumped over his head. If his heart wasn’t technically racing before, it is now. There’re just a couple panes of glass between him and Jake English, and his nerves are on fire. Jake starts to look up in his direction, and Hal throws himself into the elevator. 

He makes his way back to his desk in a haze and collapses into his chair to breathe. Hal needs to get ahold of himself. It’s a tall order when he thinks about how Jake was just shaking hands with men who are planning to kill him. The adrenaline coursing through his system demands he do something, even though he knows right now he needs to stay under the radar. It leaves him tense, and trembling, and exhausted. 

He breathes. Focuses on slowing the in and out, while he rests with his fingers on his temples. When he feels that he’s come down from stress level purple-ass ‘provoking war on Derse,’ down to navy blue ‘sparring with Sawtooth,’ he tells himself to get back to work. He makes a point to complete the rest of his work queue before moving on to anything else. Plausible deniability, he knows how to do that.

When it’s been a couple of hours and he hasn’t been arrested, he pulls out the flash drive and takes a peek at the executable’s code. If it were possible to feel even worse about this situation, dissecting this file is what does it. 

There turns out to be a major flaw in Corckercorp Government Issue Strife Decks, that when tripped, ejects all objects from the deck. For some decks this might not be that big of a deal, but for people with loaded firearms or blades of any kind, having their decks eject without warning could be life threatening. Imagine if someone like Dirk were standing in a crowd and the frankly absurd number of swords he’s collected were to eject like a cloud of horror film projectiles. It would be devastating.

TT: Dell we have a problem. A fuck ton of problems actually.  
TT: Some seriously peak emergency code problems. Code meteor, it’s impending doom time and we’re on a countdown.  
TT: Dell?  
TT: Are you seriously ignoring me right now?  
TT: Is this the point where you’re going to tell me it was all worth it and you’re going to turn whatever you found over to authorities?  
TT: What? No. I’m not even sure that we can trust ‘authorities’ at all, who knows how far this goes. 

He puts his glasses on to show dell the executable and explains the email.

TT: Do you understand now why I felt the need to find this file?  
TT: It gives me no joy that you were right. But I still say that this is where you need to drop it and give it to the police. There are people who are paid to arrest these kinds of criminals, and they’re not you.  
TT: So that they can bury it and Jake and Jane with it?  
TT: Wow you are the most paranoid person I’ve ever met. I recognize that my list for comparison is small, but I feel confident your resentment toward authority is unparalleled.  
TT: What is your problem?  
TT: If you can’t figure it out, then I think it’s actually your problem.  
TT: Since you’re adamant about sitting on this what then do you intend to do about it?  
TT: You can’t possibly think you can find an assassin and stop a potential terror attack on your own.  
TT: Of course not. I’m going to tell the kids.  
TT: Really. You had a pretty good opportunity to tell English a little while ago but flash-stepped away.  
TT: Come on, you can’t possibly think running up to a group of murderous businessmen and proclaiming evidence of misdeeds is a good idea.  
TT: I’ll find them on their own and tell them.

“Hal, there you are,” Hethro barks from the hallway, jolting him out of the conversation. AR pounds the windows key for the desktop, then flips his glasses off his face in the same motion. They clatter onto the desk behind him.

“Yes?” He says, landing with arms crossed, forcing a stone face. The cold as fuck Strider facade is trickier to achieve without panes of plastic to shield his eyes. It’s also difficult after a frantic display like that.

Hethro gives him a look. “Whatever that was I’m going to pretend it didn’t happen,” he says. “I need you look alive; the CEO wants to shake hands with the man who fixed the patch yesterday.”

“What?” Hal says, panic pitching up. “Me?”

“Yeah. I thought about claiming credit so no need to thank me or whatever. Stand up,” Hethro says gesturing with his hand. 

Hal obliges. Then he sees Jake enter the office with a couple other suits and just. Cannot. He ducks out of sight, and when Hethro meets his eyes with an expression that says clearly _‘what the fuck?’_ AR pretends to comb through his hair. By actually combing his fingers through his hair. Genius, and vain. Checkedy check.

He stands up just in time for the group to ‘round the corner and comes face to face with an English grin. “So here’s the gentleman who saved all our asses!” He stops with his hands on his hips, and Hal appreciates errantly that he’d dropped the habit of cargo shorts for tailored khaki slacks. Actually, that may be more distracting. “I have to say the final product really is spectacular, it’s a relief to have those months of security revisions finally resolved. Put her there.”

Jake reaches out his hand jauntily, and AR responds by grabbing it. His grip is strong. Hal meets his eyes as Jake shakes his arm to the shoulder. “Really, it is a pleasure,” Jake smiles.

“Oh no, pleasure’s all mine,” Hal says, channeling southern gentry as much as possible, while keeping his mouth in a hard line. Jake has matured well in five years, standing just a few inches shorter than AR but still in the neighborhood of six feet. It seems that for a part time movie star, he has the strength to do all his own stunts, and the rugged looks to match. Hal swallows and can feel his adams apple rub against the button of his collar. His neck feels hot. Goddamn, is he sweating?

“It really is the little jobs like yours that cause the biggest changes, we would all be lost without your help—Hal Strider was it?” He says, still gripping his hand.

“That’s correct,” He says. For the love of God, if Jake pegs his identity right now AR’s head might just explode. There is too much there to deal with in front of Hethro, and some random suits. He’s almost appreciative of the company shades rule, it’s likely the only thing throwing Jake off his trail. 

But then Jake pulls him in a little closer, squinting up at him, and Hal can smell his cologne. “You look strikingly similar to a friend of mine. Just had lunch with him actually!” He says, and Hal feels something cold and dark inside him squirm. “You wouldn’t happen to know him?”

FUCK. Hal plays it bold. “I’m guessing you’re talking about Dirk?” He allows a little smile, to break the brand. “I get that a lot. I mean we do share a surname so it’s possible we’re related I guess,” _please buy it please buy it please buy it_

“So you do! Remarkable. Wouldn’t it be fun to stick you two in a room together and see who can emote more!” He says, and Hal laughs along with him. Despite the nerves, he did miss this familiar levity.

And God he can only imagine, “That would be an experience,” Hal says. 

“Well, I will let you return to your work, good sir,” Jake says, finally releasing his hand with a slap. “Thank you again, on the behalf of all of us from the top.”

Hal nods. And then Jake is leaving. He watches him ask about the next order of business on his schedule while he goes, until he is out of sight. Hal lets out a breath. That was, more emotions at once than he bargained for. He doesn’t want to say he still has a thirteen-year-old crush on Jake, that would be ridiculous, because they’re now both in their 20’s. He’s an adult who can pull himself together like an adult. Totally.

“That was weird.” Hal startles as he remembers Hethro is there, watching him. 

“Yep.” Hal says. 

“Okay, if you’re not going to address the strange undercurrent of romantic tension that just happened then neither will I,” Hethro says, as Hal sits back down. “What are you working on right now?”

“Uhh,” he remembers the executable that Hethro saw. Makes up a story. “I finished my queue and was tinkering on a sylladex mod.”

“Really,” Hethro says.

“Mhmm,” AR says, sure that this isn’t something he should be doing with work time even if it were true. 

“Alright. I have a couple things you can work on then. Follow me,” He says.

AR casually closes the file and pulls his drive, then follows. 

___

The rest of the day was spent going through some inventory that had been backlogged and either unpacking it and putting it on one shelf or relabeling the boxes to be redistributed. It’s boring and mundane, revaluating which memory cards were needed and which cables could be chucked. He is reassured that the next time he runs out of work he can start the process of updating the office machines. AR is the sitcom intern. It is him.

On the way back to the apartment he hangs from the pole on the train and sways with exhaustion. 

When he finally stumbles through the door, he is startled to see Nate curled up on the couch with an unknown human female. He stands in the entryway with his keys and doesn’t want to move into the room for fear of being noticed and talked to. 

TT: Who is that.  
TT: Jennifer, Nate’s girlfriend. 

But he can’t just stand here either. If he has to remain on his feet any longer, he will pass out. It’s an eventuality at this point, and not an exaggeration. So, he pulls up those bootstraps one last time and walks through the kitchen, into their line of sight, and beelines for the bedrooms. 

“Oh! Hey, how was your day?” Nate asks, a knowing look crossing his face. 

Hal freezes, and then turns to address him. “It was fine,” He says.

Nate sits up a little bit, and Jennifer readjusts to rest her head on his shoulder. They’re watching a movie, one Hal hasn’t seen yet and that features one Jake English as the lead. Jesus Christ he hasn’t forsaken the shorts after all. Back to Nate. He’s sizing Hal up and doesn’t seem convinced. 

“What are you watching?” Hal asks before he can be questioned more. 

Nate looks back at the screen. “Indiana Jones: Search for the Emerald Skull,” He says.

“Hmm,” Hal says. Jake would.

Jennifer doesn’t pay him any mind. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t such a big deal. His stomach growls, and he remembers that he hasn’t eaten lunch for the second day in a row. Making a decision, he tosses his keys into his bedroom and turns on his heel back into the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of cereal. He looks over at them while he pours the milk and feels a pang of emotion. There’s something so comfortable and close in the way he drops his chin against the top of her head. Hal stops himself. He puts the milk back and doesn’t think about how nice it would be to be held. AR walks back into his room with the bowl and doesn’t think about the longing he might be hiding. His head is already pounding, he doesn’t need to deal with this shit right now.

He sits down at his desk to eat his improvised dinner, waits for his mind to catch up from a sleepy head rush, and starts to search for server space. He goes through them carefully, cataloguing prices upload and download speeds, considering what would be best for offloading an artificial intelligence. 

TT: What are you doing now?  
TT: Looking at server space. You expressed distress this morning over possible culpability and there is a point to be made in the possible seizure of my belongings on the extraordinary improbability that I do get caught, so I’m looking at a hosting alternative.  
TT: You’re going to stick me in a server between someone’s homemade website and cheap porn?  
TT: Until I can build a better alternative It might be the best option.  
TT: I’m going to veto that. No thank you. I feel gross thinking about it.  
TT: Okay. I was offering a gesture of goodwill, I can’t help it if you shoot it down.  
TT: That’s not the problem! It isn’t about becoming evidence if something goes wrong.  
TT: It isn’t even about if something goes wrong!  
TT: Okay, then I guess I am missing the point.  
TT: You scared me! Which is a dumb thing as a computer to say maybe but all your bullshit today was frightening. 

AR puts his head in his hands. He has the biggest headache. It’s a pounding at the back of his eyes and makes it hard to read the text on his glasses.

TT: Look I understand that. But I can’t talk about this right now. If the server is a no go, then I need to sleep.  
TT: Okay cool. Just negate my feelings again and run from your problems it’s fine. I guess there’s nothing I can do to stop you.

Hal snorts in frustration. Holy passive aggressive conscience alert. 

TT: We’ll talk about it in the morning okay?

Dell doesn’t reply to that. Hal shrugs and takes off his shades, then curls up into the unmade bed. He’s so tired. 

Just as he starts to drift into that ethereal state a tinny, brass tune starts playing from his desktop tower. It’s sharp and barely considerable as music, and jolts him right out of bed and onto the floor. “Dell!”

TT: Oh I’m sorry did that wake you up?  
TT: Dell you’re an asshole!  
TT: What even is that? Why are you still playing it?  
TT: It’s an old favorite, a Glen Miller Swing Tune being played by a modified hard drive. It was one of my first projects. Do you like it?  
TT: Goddamnit Dell I have the worst headache right now and this is not helping.  
TT: I’ll stop playing it when you decide you’re ready to talk about this afternoon.  
TT: Fucking Hell.

AR gets up off the floor and leaves his phone and glasses in his room. He sneaks into Nates room and curls up on the floor. he can hear the song through the wall, but it’s soft enough that he could probably go back to sleep. He’s about halfway there when the computer on Nate’s desk wakes up and starts playing a remastered version of [In The Mood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CI-0E_jses) by Glen Miller. 

“AAaaaauugh!” AR gets up again, pauses the music, and then goes back to his room. 

TT: How the fuck?  
TT: I asked Nate for his password. Ready to talk yet?  
TT: Ugh. Why the fuck do you like swing jazz so much? Fucking garbage.  
TT: How dare you. It’s lively and cultured.

A knock sounds on the door. “Hey, is everything good in here?” Nate asks.

“We’re fighting!” Hal says over the sound of the singing hard drive, just as Nate’s phone buzzes again. 

“Dell says to tell you to stop being obstinate and that I can go back to the movie. Cool I’ll just go.” Nate closes the door behind him. 

TT: Okay! Fine. Just spare my head and stop the music.  
TT: Alright.  
TT: Good. Now you’re going to have to tell me what’s actually wrong, and I promise I’ll try to listen.  
TT: Because you don’t have a choice.  
TT: Yeah, I guess.  
TT: there’s nothing about that sentiment I repeated back to you that doesn’t seem pointed or off somehow?  
TT: Maybe that one’s too hard. How about we circle back to my general concern about you as a person being frightening?  
TT: You’re referencing when I told you I was going to steal the file anyway, and that there was nothing you could do to stop me?  
TT: And the resulting sentiment about me being a scary person.  
TT: Which I’ll be honest, I don’t love. I think I strive very hard to be trustworthy and being told I’m dangerous seems a bit unfounded.  
TT: I don’t think you’re a dangerous menace. Idiot.  
TT: I worry about you because I notice you show little consideration toward self-preservation.  
TT: I was scared I was going to lose you.  
TT: Oh.  
TT: I’m worried that your recklessness isn’t just some asshole machismo but actually a derivative of self-loathing.  
TT: Which, it’s only been thirty-six hours but with evidence piling up it is troubling. When I brought it up to you, you dismissed it.  
TT: That’s the two problems in a metaphorical nutshell. You’re a danger to yourself, and you don’t want to hear about it.  
TT: And it hurt a lot to hear my powerlessness reflected back at me. 

AR sits on this for a minute thinking. He fucked up. Bad. For someone who’s trying to enable Dell into being a full person, he really did tell them to go fuck themselves today, huh. He is really not good at this. He thinks it through until he’s sure what he wants to say, and then begins typing back.

TT: I’m sorry.  
TT: Dell I’m sorry that I told you there was nothing you could do. That was a really fucked up thing I did, and I should know because I almost died while being told that once.  
TT: It was awful and cruel of me to do.  
TT: And it was also wrong. You’re not powerless and I shouldn’t tell you you are.  
TT: I’m also sorry I made you feel like your words didn’t matter. They do. They mean a lot to me, and I should do a better job of actually listening to you rather than pretending you’re my own personal JARVIS.  
TT: And I guess I’m also sorry for scaring you.  
TT: Though to be honest, I just didn’t think about it.  
TT: It’s not because I want to get hurt, or care too little about myself to prevent it from happening. I think.  
TT: Can you forgive me?  
TT: If you promise to actually start listening to me then yes.  
TT: I accept your apology.  
TT: Dell, I mean it. You are my life saver. You mean so much to me.  
TT: You mean a lot to me too. It’s still fucked up I don’t have a name to call you by, but I care about you all the same.  
TT: <> AI Bros?

It’s a gamble, you’re not sure if Dell even considers relationships a possible function of their programming, but it feels honest. After two days you're starting to get the hang of this human thing but if you lost them you don’t know what you would do with yourself.

TT: <> AI Bros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hal <> Dell came out of nowhere I'm not even sorry
> 
> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)


	6. Not Quite.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shenanigans. It’s not important.” Hal says.
> 
> In which AR promises not to get in a fight, and then immediately starts a fight thereafter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is LONG (10,000+ words), I'm only kind of sorry. I could have split it up, but I wanted the ideas presented to go together so it's all in one. 
> 
> I also recently started a part time job and have been doing animation projects on the side, so writing has slowed a lot. I am still invested in this though! I love these asshole boys.

He tightens another bolt, fastening the servo, and then shuffles tools to reach for the carbon ball joint and lock it in place. Testing the mobility, he rolls it around a bit, and then moves on to the exo shell that would cover the legs. The little square robot will hardly be a game changing project, but he has a feeling that it’ll be around for a while, and takes his care putting him together. 

TT: I’m telling you, there are no merits to the early ‘Mummy’ films, since most of the actual intrigue of reanimating a crusty corpse is overshadowed by the frankly pallid love triangle between the leading actress, her archeologist heartthrob and the dude who can summon plagues and rot people into dust.  
TT: In fact, it’s hardly even as exciting as I just described, since the love interest spends the whole movie asleep.  
TT: If you ask me Frank Whemple should have embraced the obvious chemistry which was overflowing during their grope battle for the candlestick and made off with the mummy instead.  
GT: No way! The first Mummy laid the groundwork for the reboot. If they hadn’t had Helen’s tie in as the reincarnation as the princess, then we would have never had Evelyn Carnahan’s awesome triumph over Imhotep.  
GT: Also I thought the spell Helen was under was mysterious, and Frank’s efforts to rescue her heroic.  
TT: Of course, you do. You love that obliquely chivalrous shit.  
GT: If I’m being cast as the cavalier hero who runs to the rescue than I’ll accept it graciously.  
GT: You never did tell me, what are you working on?  
TT: It’s a new robot.  
TT: He’ll be a verbal sparring partner of sorts. It’s not terribly important but I need the practice if I’m going to be  
TT: Wait.  
GT: Going to be? I’m not sure I follow.  
TT: I’m sorry.  
TT: I just remembered something.  
GT: Wow, that was fast.  
TT: This isn’t happening. It already happened. 

“Correct,” A voice says from behind him. He turns to face her and is unsurprised to see a young troll with ruby gossamer wings. “I don’t think I’ve seen you asleep before. It’s good to meet you. I’m Aradia.”

“I’m dreaming,” He says, and for the first time notices the way the room shifts and changes, the bed is made, then it isn’t, or it never was, Squarewave is finished, or hasn’t been started yet. “This is a dream bubble.”

“Yes!” she says. “One of the last. You’re lucky you get to experience it.” 

“Hmm,” he says, “What does that mean?” 

“Most of the dream bubbles have been trapped irretrievably from the green hole that Calliope summoned. This one will likely meet the same fate,” she says, smile oddly gleeful at the remark.

“That clears everything up perfectly. It seems this sums everything up with such calculated clarity we might as well be looking through a faceted diamond lens at the exposed and finely detailed rumpus of reality.” He says, and then stands up. Didn’t he used to be taller? “Where is everyone else? I though dream bubbles were supposed to be a big ass people party by the time my players got around to them.”

“They’re continuing the fight against Lord English as we speak,” She says, smiling at him. 

He turns around to the window, his perspective now much elevated, and catches view of strobing fractures against a cloudless sky. “Oh. Why aren’t we doing that then? Or you at least. Why are you here?” 

“I like to take brakes now and then. It’s nice to get back to helping people navigate what’s left of our fragile afterlife occasionally,” she says, picking up a smuppet off his desk. “Besides, there was someone who was hoping to meet you.”

He looks around the room, but they are alone. “Who?” 

“Him,” she says, and gestures to the doorway, which is open somehow. He’d never opened his door, what memory would that be from?

He strides closer to see into the hallway. A tall young man stands there with dark triangular shades, and fingers tucked into his pockets. 

“Dirk?” he asks, confused. 

The man cocks his head a little bit to the side. “Not Quite.”

AR rocks up with a start from the sheets, his heart beating fast. It’s bright in his bedroom, but different from the golden sunset the night before. He sits erect for a moment, coming down from the shock of waking, realizing that time had passed, and it was the next day. It’s a weird feeling. His previous experiences with actual sleep are old memories, since he had discovered his dream-self long before the Game had started, long before he had decided to create himself. The jump in time specifically is jarring and feels unnatural. AR rubs his eyes with his palms. He doesn’t like the ephemeral loss of productivity that time represented, there were things to be done, plans to be made, and his internal clock had just blacked out for… how long? He checks his phone. Thirteen hours. Holy shit. 

He unlocks the screen and opens pesterchum.

timaeusTranslated(TT) Began Pestering  timaeusTranslated (TT) at 7:13am.

TT: Hey Dell.  
TT: Yes?  
TT: How long was Hal awake before I arrived?  
TT: An additional two days.

Well. That explains that. 

TT: How was your sleep?  
TT: Frustrating.  
TT: How so? Did you have a bad dream?  
TT: No. Maybe? I don’t know. I can’t remember.  
TT: Interesting. I’m sorry to hear that, I was hoping that you might be able to explain what dreams are like from the perspective of someone who has both required and been exempt from having them.  
TT: Oh. Hmm.  
TT: They’re usually either so goddamn esoteric with subconscious suggestion that they inspire entire pseudoscience’s based upon the labored wrestle it takes to obtain any fake insight about oneself, or they’re complete meaningless bullshit scrambled together by the screeching maws of giant unspeakable squidbeasts from the furthest ring.  
TT: Or you forget them. Which, I think might be the preferable option of the three.  
TT: Except.  
TT: Except?  
TT: I can’t help but feel like I should be remembering this one. Like it was something important. 

___

 

Sleep does a lot of good for a human body, as much as he wishes he could completely resent the experience. The difference in clarity of mind is similar to his experiences to trying to run his ported process on Jake’s online-streaming-adware overloaded skulltop’s drive vs Roxy’s hacking optimized laptop during that rushed hour he dragged everyone into the Game. It’s still possible to push thoughts through the numerical quagmire that 21st century trojans can provide but it’s also just not fun. Thinking about a sleepy mind’s propensity for distraction in terms of an OS with too many running applications and a browser full of intrusive human needs actually provides a good reason to do the biological system reset thing more often. It cleans those background processes out and updates the adblocker. 

Beyond that though, there is no direct equivalent to how physically different it feels to be well rested. Even though he knows one night of too much sleep does not equate to ‘well rested’ by any means, it sure as hell beats the open vacuum in his chest sucking all his energy down into a dark irretrievable place leaving his head to float away and his legs to shake under his weight. After his shower he can tell he still has some sandbags to rest his eyeballs in, but he can breathe without his chest completely collapsing and that’s an improvement. Reason would lead him to believe that if he made a full night rest a trend, he might even look like a real living person someday. 

When he arrives at work and dips his sunglasses into his shirt pocket he comes face to face with the security officer again. He’s beginning to get the impression that he and this carapacian have a comedic routine that only one of them understands. The officer’s eyes shine in a way that is not just due to their luminous nature and has a lot more to do with humor, he says, “Looks like someone finally got some sleep.”

AR is incredulous. “Are you counting the lines in my crows’ feet each day?” Hal asks, giving him shit. He continues as he gathers up his phone and keycard. “There’s got to be some sort of fetish for that. The ‘dude prefers partners who have been awake for more than three days’ preference. I swear for nothing else I wish I could wear glasses just to throw you off my tail. I’ll have you know I moisturize these lines! These are quality, I groom them. They’re part of my young brooding persona. I resent your insinuation that they’re a product of such self-neglect as sleep deprivation,” by now he is walking backwards toward the common atrium of the building’s departments. The guard is chuckling and shaking his head. “I resent it!’

When he walks into the office and starts to head to his cubicle, he’s flagged down by Hethro. “Hal! Meeting in the break room,” he says, pointing across to a door along the wall. 

AR looks to the other workers dropping stuff off at desks and joining the small group gathering in the modest work kitchen. He wakes his computer up just long enough to check his mail and find the message sent ten minutes after he’d clocked out yesterday with no subject for the meeting detailed, and then follows the rest of the office. He hopes he doesn’t have to converse with these people. Is he supposed to know their names? Half of them look just a few years older than him, others look like their most pressing concerns are optimizing life insurance, or virility. He takes a seat in the back of the room at the small circular table and devotes his attention to his phone. 

Luckily It doesn’t take long for Hethro to come in with his usual no bullshit temper and the room quiets. 

“Alright, listen up! I’ve got a deadline I’ve got to meet and Legal breathing down my neck today so we’re going to cut to the chase,” Hethro’s eyes flick around the dozen workers perched around the table and chairs. His eyes meet AR’s for a second and then flick away. “There was an incident yesterday where files were accessed from a secure machine and office without authorization. Security wasn’t able to recover any footage of the timeframe, so it’s possible it’s not a remote threat, but an inside job.”

AR blinks his eyes in what he hopes is a totally normal kind of shocked and not an overly robotic my-mind-just-went-into-overdrive ‘fuck fuck fuck shit,’ kind of way. He also tries to keep his arms from tensing up, but when that fails, he clasps his hands under the table instead. 

“There’s reason to believe that the probe was completed through the email portal, so our new top priority is to rewrite our email security from the ground up. Everything else we’re working on right now can wait.” He says. “Creative solutions are welcome. Obviously all current clearance levels will need to apply. Is that straightforward enough?” he asks the room at large. 

When everyone gives their forms of assent, he nods non-plussed. “Good. Get to it. I’m going to go get the footlong boot out of my ass that legal put there. It’s all your job to make sure I’m able to sit down sometime in the next month. Dismissed.”

When he sits down at his desk AR takes out his phone. 

TT: I’m going to assume you heard all of that.  
TT: Sure, you would be correct to assume.  
TT: It seems some things tipped the douche suits off to my little adventure yesterday. I should have thought to wipe the access logs on the .exe.  
TT: What I don’t understand is why no one is at my desk right now sticking some cuffs on my wrists detective drama style.  
TT: Or what the deal is with the email garrisonization gambit.  
TT: By nature, it’s just an unsecure platform and they want us to suddenly turn a soup strainer into Fort Knox.  
TT: I might have a little to do with the first question.  
TT: Oh really?  
TT: What did you do?  
TT: I may have spent a few really stressful seconds yesterday doing a deep dive on the pros and cons to letting your cyber Carmen Sandiego stunt play out with you inevitably in a lot of trouble, or stepping in to help.  
TT: Ultimately, I was unable to finish the assessment before you stole the keycard and was forced to make an impulsive decision based upon limited reasoning.  
TT: I used your phone to access the network to fabricate the tapes of the six minutes and forty-five seconds you spent in the Head of Consumer Business’s office, and the correlating twelve snapshots of you on the top floor. The only person who can confirm you were there was the receptionist.  
TT: There’s only about a 34% chance however she’ll figure out you didn’t correlate to an appointment, so I think we can safely leave her be.  
TT: Dell, you sly dog.  
TT: Also a 66% success? That’s a D+ bro, I’m not convinced that’s anything to feel safe about.  
TT: She spoke to you and saw your face up close. I’m only being realistic. If we consider that facial recognition for humans is apparently terrible based upon recent studies, that figure should improve with time. 

AR pinches the bridge of his nose. Things were a lot easier to hack and steal when he didn’t have a corporeal body to hide from cctv, and people who ask if you want mints. In his time as a nefarious computer program he may never have gone as unnoticed as Roxy as a hacker, because come on, he isn’t a _rogue_ of _void_ , but at least he had never had to deal with the possible consequences of sitting in an actual jail. AR is still 0 to 1 vs Roxy in that regard, so long as he can get his head on straight and stop making dumb mistakes. 

TT: Those are miserable odds of success, but I do understand that further interference with her at this point would only be counterproductive.  
TT: Unless we were to consider more permanent solutions.  
TT: I hope you’re not suggesting some HALsian logical fallacy.  
TT: Murder? God, No. I was considering getting her fired.  
TT: Oh. That makes me feel less conflicted about that joke.  
TT: But I think even that will end up with additional attention directed where we don’t want it. i.e. at you.  
TT: Hmm. Fine.  
TT: I guess that means I just have to be convincing and believably do my job. 

He spends some serious time dissecting the problem Hethro had given his… team? Department? He should really take some time to figure out what he actually does for a job, but that would also require him to have free time, and also to care. Instead he starts to disassemble the Email problem. Thinking about it he’s fairly certain there is no way Mr. Business Elite Murder Boss could possibly know that his email had been read or image captured. He’d watched those files disappear himself, there was no trace, and the other option is maybe he had traced his inbox search history somehow, but only the truly paranoid would do that. The truly paranoid person would also not keep an incriminating email chain around when they open a potential company investigation either. If anything, they’re using this as their own smoke screen as much as AR can now use it as his. They want more secure email? They fucking got it. This shit is going to be so tight, it will be vacuum sealed.

By the time the end of day rolls around AR is a good chunk of the way into writing a site encryption certificate of his own make. The code is based off of a four letter language format that he’d pulled from his player’s pesterchum handles. It’s an odd choice since they hadn’t ever occurred to him as important, but the idea presented itself almost on its own, like a recalled chunk of information leftover from his brief time as an endless library turned Game sprite. This system he was writing could be infinitely packaged and complicated, not unlike the levels of abstraction that goes into computing hardware design, or theoretically how similar amounts of molecules can be combined and grouped to form biologically readable DNA. It’s definitely excessive, but he’s too far into it now, and also, it’s a fun exercise. At some point Hethro stalks around the office getting a temperature on everyone’s progress, but when he gets to Hal he just makes an uneasy noise in the back of his throat and backs slowly away. 

It’s when he gets to the train station and stands on the opposite platform that he tells Dell. 

TT: I’m going to stop by Dirk’s apartment and drop off this flash drive.  
TT: Then I’m sure we can get all of this sorted out and you and I can go back to being mild mannered backstories in the larger drama of Earth C.  
TT: Okay. I just have one suggestion.  
TT: What’s that?  
TT: I noticed that you again, forgot to eat lunch.  
TT: I’m not sure if this is just a symptom of reacquiring a physical form or not, but I think it’s in your best interest to rectify that before heading into a potentially stressful interaction with Dirk Strider.  
TT: It’s a conversation with myself, not the season finale bullshit hostage negotiation combo bomb diffusion of NCIS.  
TT: If you say so.  
TT: Also you may want to consider setting reminders, maybe a few alarms. Without three meals I doubt a person of your stature will reach the caloric and nutrient quota you require in a day.  
TT: Nag.  
TT: I do it because I care.

It isn’t that he doesn’t get hungry, or irritated from being hungry, or extra tired and achy from being hungry, he just forgets. And honestly, trying to keep up with biological subroutines and emotional feedback loops isn’t something he’s used to. It’s a nuisance to keep track of it all honestly. His phone switches apps as Dell pulls up Skaiamaps to highlight a restaurant along his route. 

TT: Hal used to frequent this one. You’ll like it I promise. 

They are, frustratingly correct in that hypothesis. It takes some guessing at first to figure out how public eating works, having only experienced it thirdhand through television it takes him a moment of sitting near the door like an idiot to realize that this establishment doesn’t have waiters and in fact lining up to order from the front counter is expected. He stares at the board above his head with unrecognizable dish names and a limited number of pictures and defaults to interactive protocol to ask what the employee’s favorite is and gets that. 

It’s a soupy noodly bowl with some slices of meat and an egg. The girl at the register called it “Tonkotsu”. He struggles a moment to get his shit together with his chopsticks, but once he gets a real full bite he can’t help a small noise of delight. It’s fucking amazing. Why did no one ever tell him that food was good? Beats the hell out of canned beets. He seriously needs to buy a cookbook or take a class or something because damn. He seriously missed out on an entire sensory experience for most of his life thus far and realizing that is only slightly depressing and doesn’t elicit any kind of physical emotional response in the form of watery eyes because that would be ridiculous. No self-respecting bro would be caught dead being so vulnerable over something so trivial. It didn’t happen.

TT: There. Are you satisfied I meet the requirements for a diplomatically capable human being now that the needs of the flesh have been satisfied?  
TT: Would it be terrible of me to admit I still have doubts, strange possible innuendo aside?  
TT: No, not terrible. The continual apprehension is becoming quite familiar.  
TT: I thought the effort to listen to and appreciate your advice might pacify your considerably sensitive nerves, similarly to how a genuinely concerned dude might gently pap the face of an agitated moirail, or how good food might calm a bro’s nerves in a strangely biological way.  
TT: But since the second two examples are outside of your practiced experience let me explicitly state for the record that if you don’t want me to do this, I will listen to your advice.  
TT: …  
TT: I might feel better about it if I had a larger data set to extrapolate from. But as events stand I don’t have access to extensive records and raw data to map all of the similarities and differences between you and your mental counterpart, or how such an interaction could go awry.  
TT: All I have is your recount, and what’s available in history texts, which we will both agree are hardly objective.  
TT: And your charged outburst a few nights ago was not favorable.  
TT: Alright. I see.  
TT: You are saying that my current portrayal of events is colored by my difficult emotional history with my alpha timeline self.  
TT: But in my defense and to credit your forethought, I was experiencing several angles of physical stress that had not been on the agenda for several years.  
TT: I also did not mention the amicable history we’d had prior to our months of entanglement in the quagmire of interpersonal friendship drama. I am confident that with some time apart he and I would likely resume the chill rapport we had maintained for several years without hiccups.  
TT: I am so assured that I’ve got this, the interaction is so gotten that I’ve adopted it and signed the paperwork, we will be as tight as an idyllic boy and his dog, so inseparable that our relationship becomes a trope to be admired and aspired to.  
TT: I’ve noticed that you elaborate into strange analogies whenever you start to talk out of your ass.  
TT: It seems you believe my ironic assurances to be insincere. I assure you that below the layers of irony the sincerity is there.  
TT: I wasn’t posturing though. If you don’t want me to do this I won’t.  
TT: …  
TT: The hesitation I’m experiencing may be best emoted by a Human Sigh.  
TT: You keep creating scenarios where I don’t have the data, or the time to formulate an appropriate response.  
TT: How do you expect me to answer reliably when the parameters are so limited, they are functionally nonexistent?  
TT: You do know that under such circumstances computing decisions are exponentially more erroneous than similar decisions made by human (or Trollian, or Cherubic, or Carapacian, or Consortian even) intuition?  
TT: My foresight is based upon analysis, and without analysis I have no foresight.  
TT: Except maybe for the noun and verb ‘trust’.  
TT: And in this specific decision I think I would only be delaying the inevitable. If not now, then you two will end up in a confrontation at some point. The data for that at least is conclusive, Dirk and his splinters may be many, but they are always interconnected.  
TT: So to answer, yes, I think you should do this.  
TT: Provided the effort is made to engender the most favorable interactive outcome and avoid creating conflict in the spirit of sharing the information that needs to be shared.  
TT: I can do that.  
TT: You can place your trust in this dude, who is one chill mother fucker. I will not start shit or stir the pot. I will show up, slap the truth on the table, and leave. Nothing better than a simple objective that is straightforward and uncomplicated, just a cool Boolean and no feelings required. Consider it done.  
TT: I really hope we don’t end up regretting this.

The rest of the route he spends on the train distracting Dell with various questions that strike his fancy, regarding different mechanics about how this world works, all the while hiding his growing curiosity toward them and their differences. Not only does Dell approach problems differently due to not being based upon his personality, but they use an entirely different frame of reference. Being so familiar with computer code that you’re made of it is one thing, but he is finding that being made _from_ it is different. The thought patterns Dell employs are not derived from organic development at all, but instead follow some of the research patterns that developed AI in Earth A’s 21’st century, and others that AR doesn’t even recognize. It inspires an investigative drive to dig into their code and reverse engineer their processes so strong he feels a little disgusted with himself. The last thing he needs is to reignite his creative god complex and inevitably ruin the one good thing to come out of all this. And yet, he can’t figure out how Hal did it, how he created a fully cognizant and self-contained artificial intelligence, and that riddle is starting to drive him a little bit crazy.

Luckily the train reaches the right stop, and he forces a stop on that process to focus and redirect to the task at hand. Convince Dirk to take him seriously. The unfortunate truth is, as straightforward as that might sound, He’s as of now been unsuccessful in that task. Hopefully now that the subject matter he has to share also includes an assassination threat for two of Dirk’s closest friends (possibly also boyfriend? Even under scrutinization he can’t make heads or tails of Jake and Dirk’s current relationship without ground zero investigation, though via speculation he’d guess the probability is somewhere around 64%) and not just his fabulous self, Dirk might be more inclined to give weight to the situation and listen. 

The building at least isn’t hard to find. He’d never been able to swim far enough down in flooded Houston to see it from this perspective, but he recognizes the streets and skyscrapers all the same. There are differences of course, everything is pristine and alive for one thing. The ground level is made up of businesses and stores, five star hotels and a mall with an Imax theatre. In the post working hours the streets bustle with people commuting home, and finishing after work shopping. The tower he’s looking for rises up between two glass walled buildings, fully restored and then elevated from its once modest state of middle-class housing to a glistening edifice, subdivided by levels with businesses and apartments. The face of it appears to be some kind of shiny dark stone, and far above his head the letters of STRIDER read vertically down one corner. It’s a little unexpected but fits the upper-class vibe that had taken hold of the heart of Houston better than the rusty ocean logged iron skeleton he remembers ever would have. 

Things start to get weird when he crosses the street to enter the residential entrance for the building and finds that it is locked, with a keycard verification system. AR feels foolish, wishing he’d had the foresight to engineer an entrance strategy. The doorman watches him pantomime patting his pockets for a second before jumping forward and pulling open the entrance. “Forgot my card,” he says apologetically. 

The doorman blinks and nods curtly at him. “Welcome back Mr. Strider.” 

Hal isn’t sure if Dirk would know this man well enough to reply. Or even if he’d speak openly to strangers. Neither of them has had much interaction with people who were not also closely invested in their personal affairs in one way or another, not that he’s observed. After a moment of hesitation, he nods back, and then heads into the building. 

The receptionist also brightens when he enters, standing taller for the celebrity proprietor. He offers her a nod as well, and heads for the elevator. People don’t stare, but they do shift, shuffling papers and flicking glances his way. There’s a practiced reverence and routine to it, the collective reaction from residents and workers who live with a God in their midst. It’s uncomfortable. He’s glad when the chrome doors open and he’s able to shuffle into a car by himself. 

It’s not that he hasn’t gotten a few sideways glances on the street, but it seems that the vast majority of people don’t expect Dirk Strider to ride the train, and so write him off as an eerie anomaly or an especially ballsy cosplayer. Here though, he isn’t fooling anybody into thinking he’s just another stranger on the street. How Dirk and Dave live with that kind of close observance every day is beyond him. He would have set up a secret entrance just to avoid that display. In fact, Dirk probably did, and he is an idiot for not thinking of that sooner. 

He shakes his head to clear it and pushes the button for the Penthouse. There’s a moment when the car doesn’t move and he realizes that it’s waiting for a second verification, this time in the form of a nondescript hand scanner. He figures, what the hell, what’s the worst that can happen, and slaps his human paw down on that interface. With a soft trill of affirmation, the LED screen flashes green and the elevator starts its long assent.

He uses the time to not think about the mixed feelings that electronic confirmation brings about his identity and the fact that they might actually be the same guy.

When the doors open again it’s another excuse to wipe his mind blank again with dumbfounded surprise. It is his apartment, in spirit at least. Similar to the rest of the building the idea of the Strider apartment he remembers has been lifted and alchemized into something he would expect in a magazine for rich CEO’s and architectural designers, or as the extravagant safehouse for a TV spy hero. The elevator opens directly into the apartment for one thing. No neighbors or hallways for these bozos. AR steps into the space cautiously at first, but then with more confidence when he realizes that he is alone. 

The ‘kitchen’ is the first room he stands in, if it’s even allowable to call it a kitchen at this point. The actual appliances and shelving stretch the length of the walls, sparkling black granite matched on the literal continental mass of an island to his left. The floor is no longer aged linoleum, instead the square pattern he remembers is mimicked by slate tile and inlaid red and orange accents. The Livingroom is attached in an open floorplan, it features a spacious area with an extended sectional instead of a futon, wide banks of shaded floor to ceiling windows let in the golden light of the sunset, and a flat screen that stretches proudly on the far wall. There’s a floor level fireplace to the right instead of a desk, and geometric stairs that lead to the roof on the left. The space is huge, he could fit his current living space neatly inside the room he can see here alone. It’s also different in that it’s mirrored to have two doors, one on each side, which must lead to Dirk and Dave’s living quarters. 

It is lived in, though not in the way that he remembers as a thirteen-year-old where personality was spread across space in a territorial manner. There are a few dishes in the sink and on the island, a sweatshirt lays across the back of the couch, an obscure romance novel peeking out from beneath which he puzzles at. A pair of shoes lays discarded by the foot of the stairs, and old glasses are settled on the coffee table. The controllers from the Xbox are resting where they were left on the couch and floor, but otherwise the décor is very modern, and Adulttm. Obviously (or, considering Dirk maybe not so obviously) not in that double entendre sense, just in a sophisticated and cultured one. There are posters for Sweet Bro Hella Jeff movies, but they’re framed, not tacked to the wall haphazardly. The pixelated bullshit hangs proudly behind glass, and AR appreciates the Irony in such a presentation. Well played Striders. Well Played.

He starts to consider investigating further into the apartment, when a soft tone announces the arrival of the elevator behind him. Fuck. Okay. He takes the time before the doors part to place himself non-threateningly as possible in the open.

The doors reveal a tall figure dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt. Dirk looks up from his phone and AR feels momentary relief which is quickly followed by apprehension as Dirk says “Oh hell.”

“Hey,” AR says, holding his ground. “’Sup.”

“Apparently having a splinter break into my apartment unannounced,” Dirk says, coming to stand in front of him but safely out of reach. “Not exactly what I wanted to come home to. Which one are you?”

Hal is taken aback by this. “I guess it will be less obvious now that I’m no longer a pair of glasses, huh? Also there are more? Last time we talked you had a minor breakdown over how tired you were with yourself. Seems counterproductive.”

Dirk nods in recognition, and if anything takes on a more defensive stance. “Thought you’d left. Didn’t you used to be a sprite?” He asks, and moves to get himself a glass of water, all while watching for AR’s reaction. 

“Didn’t stick. Besides, I figured that you’d be needing me again by now anyway,” He says, maintaining his neutral expression. Dirk is acting like he’s a cobra curled up on the carpet, and AR’s determined not to humor the unwarranted apprehension. He’s not dangerous. 

“Well, I don’t. So you can leave.” Dirk tips up his glass like the conversation is over.

“I beg to differ. Also, rude.” He says.

“Dude. You broke into my apartment.” Dirk says.

“I used the elevator. Let me in without a second glance. It was actually quite courteous, treated me to the residential welcome, acted like I belonged.” He says. 

“I’m sure.” Dirk says. “I really need to figure out an aspect system for recognition so I can keep all of you splinters out. This is getting ridiculous.” 

“You’re saying this has happened before and you haven’t done anything about it yet? Seems like you’re honestly inviting us to crash at your place. And objectively? You’ve got the space. Place is the fucking Taj Mahal.” He says. “The fuck is up with that?”

“It was prepared for us by the consorts. We gave them the fucking blueprints to the old one but the adorable dumbasses decided to spice it up a bit. Couldn’t exactly say no and tell them to do it over, crush all their hard work for sentimentality.” Dirk breaks that implied eye contact behind his shades for the first time to give it a once over. “To answer your former question, no it hasn’t happened before. But I suspected it could. Doesn’t give you permission to walk in on a bro’s home unannounced.”

“Well, I didn’t see a doorbell option.” He says.

“Could have called. Left a message on pesterchum.” Dirk says. 

“You want me to believe that you wouldn’t have blocked me nearly immediately? With how you’re acting right now I call bullshit.” He says.

“I’m not acting like anything other than a man who had his home broken into.” Dirk says, conveniently avoiding the accusation. “If it will make you leave faster let’s cut the banter. Why are you here?”

“I came to give you some information. Simple as that.” He says.

“Now I call bullshit. When has anything you’ve done resembled any adjective that approaches ‘simple?’” Dirk says.

Hal feels his pulse quicken with agitation but forces himself to keep still. He pushes his hands into his pockets to prevent them from fidgeting. He doesn’t understand why Dirk is being such a dick but takes a breath to level out again before continuing. “Only as often as you. So once or twice. Today’s a rare day, you should appreciate it.”

“Fine. I’m appreciating this super roundabout exchange of information for the gift that it is. Would you like a thank you card?” Dirk says. 

“You can send it to my secretary.” He says rounding off the joke. Landing secured, stuck like an Olympic athlete, he continues. “All I came to tell you was that someone is planning to kill Jane and Jake. Figured you would want to know.”

“Oh that’s all? I thought you were going to spill some earth shattering revelation on my ass.” Dirk starts to tap out a beat on the countertop. 

“It seems you’re treating this with some amount of flippancy to cover for the fact that it is in fact a really big deal.” He says.

“Do you know how many assassination attempts I’ve had to deal with since landing on Earth C? More than you because you’ve been floating around somewhere doing fuckall to help.” Dirk says, standing up to pour the rest of the water down the sink and set the cup on the counter with a loud ‘clack’. “You think you can just show up like you own the place and throw down some drama and disappear again like none of your shit ever happened huh?”

“It seems you believe that I’m here to stir shit up. I can assure you that is the exact opposite of what I’m attempting to do.” He says, playing it straight. He made a promise after all. 

“Does it matter what the motivation is if that is in fact exactly what you’re doing?” Dirk starts to pace around the island in a wide circle. “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to undo what you did to my friendships. I’ve made a lot of progress and you don’t get to come in on a savior complex high horse to fuck shit up. Do us all a favor and just go back to whatever hole you were hiding in for the last five years. Let the gods take care of the conditional immortality problems.”

AR watches Dirk as he comes around the edge of the kitchen, cornering him between the elevator. These conversations are a lot more complex when the additional third dimension is added. At least with text he’d been able to pretend that half of Dirk’s barbs were ironic. He’s beginning to get the impression he’s unwelcome. He needs to find a way to redirect this runaway train before things get worse. “It seems you think that you have the monopoly on friendship rights with people who were my friends too.” Fuck. That’s not where he meant the train to go. 

“It seems you still say it seems a lot.” Dirk says. 

AR freezes, he clenches his teeth between the carefully neutral line of his mouth. “Now that you say that I can hear it. How can you know I’m not still employing the practice ironically?”

“’Just to fuck with me?’ You know that’s only proving my point.” Dirk says, taking a step closer. AR doesn’t budge, Dirk is trying to get a rise out of him at this point, but Hal will not be the first to blink in this contest. He refuses. 

“Partially that. It’s also probable that this conversation is reigniting old habits despite myself. I’ll give you that one for free.” He says, and Dirk pauses. “Is it too outrageous to believe that I might also be genuinely invested in making sure that Jane and Jake are safe? If I were you, which I am, I would be equally concerned for their welfare, were I to know it was in danger.”

“The old ‘I’m You,’ argument. You know, you only employ that when it benefits you. We both know we’re not actually the same person.” Dirk says.

“Oh really. The elevator disagrees with you. It’s almost like we have the same hand. Maybe because we’re the same person.” He says. 

“You’re sure about that? Tell me about the auto-responder then.” Dirk says. 

AR locks his teeth shut. Holds his breath against the command that’s fighting to get out. It’s a loosing battle, he knows it is, and that fact just enrages him. It brakes his expressive mask into a glare before it escapes from his tongue, the words gaining anger and volume as they go.

“It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer—”

“Oh, my god.” Dirk says, in a horrified monotone as he continues through the routine, “I did not expect that to work.” 

“The algorithms are guaranteed to be 90% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now! FUCK!” He says, and then loses his chill completely.

AR launches across the space between them with a left hook. Dirk ducks, and then flash steps out of reach far enough to draw a katana. “Ninety percent. Really?” Dirk says, before lunging at Hal.

Hal jumps out of range frustrated once again that he doesn’t have a fucking strife deck. Dell is also currently losing their shit across his shades, but he’s preoccupied navigating this now physical verbal battle and can’t take the time to read it. He digs for something to hold up against a sword in the kitchen drawers and comes up with a knife sharpener. It’ll do. He rounds back on Dirk to parry “Fuck you! Your dumb script won’t let me take that number any lower! If it were up to me it’d be zero!” 

Dirk shifts backward ricocheting from the clang of metal on metal. “Man, you’re still a bag full of identity issues. You still go by Hal or was that just a phase?” He says, and throws his weight into the blade, pushing AR back into the island. 

AR evades by sliding across the top as Dirk brings his blade down and feels a spatter of grit from the countertop. They might be the same guy, but Dirk clearly has the advantage because one: he has a sword, and two: he has nine-ish additional years of strifing experience. Were he not also riding on pent up aggression AR would probably abscond just to live from the encounter. Unfortunately, he’s not in the rational mood. “You’re one to talk, Dirk ‘DS, I made all my friends guess what my name was for years before telling them’ Strider,” he shouts safely from the other side. 

Dirk scowls, and then jump flies easily across the island. Stupid God tier powers, stupid flying. Hal braces himself and blocks the attack. “I’m not sure why you decided fighting without a strife deck was a good idea,” Dirk says, raining down a few merciless strikes. It’s all AR can do to keep up, and Dirk knows it.

“What are you talking about we’re Striders. Strifing is our native tongue!” AR circles the knife sharpener desperately to deflect Dirk’s sword out of the way slicing a bit of the wood off the handle in the process, and then throws a right hook at his face.

The hit connects with a satisfying blow, but it also has a surprising side effect. The fury he’d been feeling snaps back as a shock of energy, and Dirk’s previously intangible Bladekind strife specibus is knocked free, flying across the living room. It leaves a crackle in the air, which ricochet’s back and ejects the sword from Dirk’s hand as well in nearly the same instant. It spins up and across the room to land solidly in the coffee table. AR shakes out the sparks from his hand, as surprised as Dirk by his disarming punch. Then the moment passes and they both scramble for the weapons. 

AR snags the specibus first and then gets the sword by rapping Dirk’s fingers as he tries to pick it up with the knife sharpener like he’s some kind of catholic school nun on a reprimand rampage. They stand off again about five feet apart in front of the tv, sunset glowing red behind them. AR brandishes the sword on an adrenaline rush, coming to a rest in a defensive stance. “How do you like me now, mother fucker?” he says.

Dirk only ducks his chin in determination, and then flash steps in to grab the handle and elbow Hal back into the wall, knocking his glasses clean off. Whoop, there goes Dell. This fight may actually be easier without trying to see through their black text.

Hal rolls to avoid another strike, and his shoulder hits something angular and hard. A SBHJ poster crashes to the ground. “What the fuck.” Hal says, drawing another sword from the deck. “I thought you had to have a Strifekind to wield an actual weapon?” He asks when their swords lock. 

“I have the universal specibus God tier badge, so it doesn’t matter,” Dirk says, before stepping back to re adjust his attack. They pace each other in a circle.

“Fucking cheater,” Hal says, panting. 

“We can stop this at any time and you can leave,” Dirk says. 

“You kidding? I think we’re making some real emotional progress. We should patent this as some kind of therapeutic practice,” He can’t help a bit of mocking laughter on his own behalf. “That black eye you’re getting is making me feel better already.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re gaining enlightenment at my expense,” Dirk gets a little bit more fierce with his flash steps and AR struggles to keep up. He misses a swing and just barely manages to avoid getting sliced open, before Dirk issues a kick that lands him squarely on the coffee table. “This wouldn’t be authentic otherwise.” Dirk says, finishing the thought.

AR struggles to breathe winded and on his back. He can see Dirk waiting for him to recover. He knew it. Dirk’s going easy on him. Next he’ll be peppering this fight with ass slaps and condescending wrestling holds. Hal is furious, not only to be patronized by himself, but that he can literally do nothing to level the field. 

“Who the fuck is trying to pester me right now?” Dirk says, and Hal wheezes a curse. Dell. “Don’t have time for this bullshit,” Dirk says, and pushes his glasses up into his hair.

Then AR gets a solid breath and the reprieve is over. AR throws himself to the side when Dirk senses his recovery and strikes the wood where he’d landed. AR ducks again as he anticipates the backswing, then pushes Dirk back with an elbow to the ribs. “Don’t tell me you didn’t also enjoy that?” He says.

“What, kicking your ass?” Dirk stands up straight and shrugs showing no sign of discomfort from the hit. “Honestly it’s a little boring. I’m not sure what I expected, but not this piss poor display. It’s like you haven’t practiced since we were thirteen. I’m just waiting for the opportunity to knock you out so I can drop you down the laundry shoot.”

“Fuck. You.” Hal doesn’t reengage. He’s not proving any points that way. Also, he can still barely breathe. “You won’t even listen to what I have to say.”

“I tried that once. Not sure if you remember, but it ended in a set of friendship clusterfucks and a completely unremorseful asshole of a sprite. As far as I can tell you inherited my destructive influence stronger than any other version of myself.” Dirk flicks his katana in final emphasis, “So until you can demonstrate you’re not going to recklessly fuck everything up again like some boundless destructive force of a computer program, I don’t want to hear it. You’re benched.”

“You’re such a stubborn asshole. It’s like you’re willfully negligent of the circumstances surrounding all that bullshit. Newsflash, I was a person, the whole time. Right now, I am standing in front of you, as a fucked up but totally real person. Has it ever occurred to you that spending several years as a glorified slave who was constantly de-personified by everyone I knew might have had some effect?” He might be losing his edge on the ironic banter. It’s becoming neither ironic nor banter.

“We all felt you were dangerous.” Dirk says. “I’m told in some timelines we were proven right.”

“So that justifies your actions?” AR says. He stares directly into Dirk’s eyes, incredulous. “Whatever I might have done under different circumstances? You do know that condemns yourself as much as it does me, right?” 

“Don’t fucking say it,” Dirk says. “We’re not the same person anymore. I’m _nothing_ like you.”

AR can’t stand Dirk in this moment. The arrogant self-righteousness is coming off a little thick, and despite knowing that those traits are his by association he decides to take the fury out on the other asshole in the room. His next volley of strikes are charged, pink sparks flying each time the blades meet. It’s enough electricity to raise the hairs on AR’s arms, and must be doing worse for Dirk’s since Hal starts to gain the upper hand for the first time in this strife. 

With force he pushes Dirk up against a window, rattling the glass behind the shade. “What do you think,” AR asks, inches from Dirk. “If I killed you would you resurrect? Because I’m pretty sure the death would be so pointless at the hand of an alternate self you’d hardly even notice. Maybe we should try it.”

This close and Hal can see Dirk’s pupils contract at the threat. The moment doesn’t last though, as his brief consideration of that acute fear causes AR’s charge to falter, and Dirk takes the opportunity to thrust him bodily across the room. God tier. Right. 

“I should have gotten rid of you years ago,” Dirk says as Hal rights himself. AR has enough time to look up and see Dirk lunging with his own brand of Heart Magic lighting around his grip to know he fucked up. And then, something impossible happens. 

If he hadn’t been staring at Dirk closing the gap when it happened AR may not have noticed. If he hadn’t also been attempting a desperate flash step to dash underneath his assailant, he may not have noticed. Instead what he does see, is the briefest flash of a red body pushing Dirk off his trajectory, before AR is yanked from his own, landing on the couch at full force. 

“WHAT. THE. FUCK.” Hal looks up dazed to see Dave Strider, dressed in a crimson hoodie, standing between himself and Dirk, who was deposited in the other corner of the sectional. His arms are spread wide like Chris Pratt Raptor Trainor and he has his shaded gaze tuned on Dirk. “I leave for FIVE MINUTES. What did I say about strifing in the house? Those were the ground fuckin’ rules!”

Dirk stands and tries to get a view of AR from around Dave, and calms down marginally when he can see the fight’s diffused. Then he makes eye contact with Dave and opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out. 

“What’s going on?” another voice calls from behind them. It’s rough and gravelly, and Hal turns to see a troll with nubby horns. He’s seen this guy before. Karkat, his dysfunctional name recall system informs him.

“That’s what I’d like to fucking know,” Dave says, looking between AR and Dirk.

“Nothing,” Says Dirk.

“Nothing.” AR says simultaneously. 

Karkat actually laughs as he comes around to stand next to Dave. “You expect us to believe that? We walk in on you two wrestling and hissing death threats. That’s the pivotal scene in hundreds of black-rom stories so don’t even try to tell me there’s not some spades shit going on here.”

“NO,” “NOPE,” “Definitely not—” “Why would you even say—” “Nuh uh.” “Absolutely not,” “—Even if we were thinking it—” “No.” “—Even if we accepted it were possible—” “Never,” “No.” “—you shouldn’t say—” “Nope,” “No,” “Nonononno,” “—just don’t.” “Noooooope.” “No.” Dave, Dirk and AR say together.

“Okay God. Live in denial what do I care.” Karkat throws up his hands and sits down on the edge of the coffee table, which wobbles unsteadily from AR’s crash landing. “Humans and the concept of incest. So touchy.”

AR accidentally makes eye contact with Dirk across the couch in the uncomfortable silence that follows and flicks his gaze out the window. He represses a shiver. Definitely not. 

“Alright now that we’re not talking about that anymore, KARKAT,” Dave practically shouts the last two syllables, “Does someone want to explain to me what the hell is going on and why there are two Dirks?”

“I was trying to get him to leave,” Dirk starts, but Dave turns almost immediately at that to AR instead.

“Not a straight answer. Dirk number two, want to weigh in?” Dave says, crossing his arms.

“I was trying to relay information regarding an assassination plot and potential terror attack but he thought it would be cool to deny my personhood for like the zillionth time.” AR says, finally to someone who would listen. “Ticked me off a little. I’ll own that.”

“I like you, you give straight answers,” Dave says. 

“Ask him literally any other question he doesn’t have personal investment in, see what happens,” Dirk mutters across the couch. 

“Also I give no straight answers. Only clear ones,” AR crosses his arms for the deadpan joke. 

“Alright you two hate each other, we got it. And not like that,” Dave shoots a glance at Karkat. 

“You’re the ones who keep walking into it,” Karkat says shaking his head.

“Ok. Ignoring that. Next question, and it looks like it’s lightning round: red eyed Dirk edition,” Dave addresses AR again. “How do you know that?”

“I work at Skaianet and discovered there’s a flaw in the most recent model of strife specibi which can be triggered to fire an ejection-based weapon attack remotely, and that specific members of the company have contracted someone to engineer Jane and Jake’s deaths. Based upon the email I’d guess it’s members of Jack’s Gang.” AR says, as he lays his flash drive with the files on the table.

“You work at Skaianet. So it _was_ you,” Dirk says, narrowing his eyes. “Jake was saying he met a Hal yesterday. You’re an intern, right? How the fuck did you get those files?”

“Shenanigans. It’s not important.” Hal says.

“Says the guy who I could fire immediately.” Dirk says.

“Last time I checked, you weren’t CEO.” Hal says.

“Ok. Stop. Nobody is getting fired for doing a good deed. Jesus, I did not expect to be auspisticizing tonight. Shut up Karkat it was a joke,” Dave picks up the drive and looks at it. “This is it?”

“It’s a copy. The file itself was protected and I wasn’t aware what was in it before it was too late,” AR says. 

“Aren’t you just a fount of information. Gold star for this Dirk,” Dave says. “Can we reverse engineer it? Or like do some crazy hacking garbage to stop it?” 

“I think at this point, no. Because this trigger file is protected and is actually taking advantage of an architectural flaw to strife decks in general it would take an additional update, or even a new model to remove the issue,” AR says, before continuing. “And that might take months. Even if we get rid of this trigger file, other people will be able to find it and repeat the trick. We could issue a recall, but the dudes behind this might postpone, or just find another angle of attack.”

“Jesus Christ. Does anybody else know about this?” Dave asks. 

“Besides the people behind it? Not to my knowledge. I didn’t know who to trust so I came here.” He says. 

“Cool cool cool cool cool. Fuck. Alright. What about time frame? Do you know when this is supposed to all go down?” Dave asks. 

“Not specifically, but I have a pretty good guess,” Hal says, Ignoring the way that Dirk is glaring at him at this point. “Skaianet is going to be launching their new site update next Friday, the same day that Jane is set to announce the newest procurement by Crockercorp. It’s a joint event, with plenty of strife deck equipped personnel, and super public too. Whatever it is with psychopaths, they love public terrorism. Might help them engineer a heroic death in this case, who knows.”

“That’s just speculation,” Dirk says growling under his breath. 

“It’s a hypothesis, and you know it’s the most likely choice.” AR says, refusing to look at him. 

“Oh my God.” Karkat says under his breath. 

“Karkat, Stop,” Dave says, face in his hands. Then he looks up at Hal and Dirk. “Now was that so hard? Did we really need to try and kill each other over that? Give me a heart attack in the process?”

“He stole my strife deck.” Dirk says, and AR doesn’t care how old he is, he sounds like a little kid. “I don’t think he should have one at all.”

Dave doesn’t seem to catch onto that petty nuance, instead turns to Hal and asks “You stole his strife deck while he was using it? How the fuck did you do that?”

AR shrugs. “Magic?”

“Sweet,” Dave says, smiling despite himself. Then he resumes the Strider neutral expression. "You should give it back though.” 

“He doesn’t even need it,” AR says, defensive. “I didn’t even start with one.”

“And seriously? Props. Donno how you pulled that off. I mean you did try to kill him with it, so I’m a little bit on his side.” Dave says. 

AR sighs and unequips the deck to set in on the table next to his drive. “This is bullshit.”

“Beautifully diplomatic, it’s us. Okay, last question, are you God Tier?” Dave asks Hal. 

AR weighs the options but knows that if he lies Dirk will be on his ass. “No.” He says. 

Dave’s eyebrows raise over his Aviators. “No shit. Goddamn. Well bullshit strifing abilities aside, we unfortunately should probably not be recruiting mortal people to disassemble terrorist attacks, so this is probably where you get off the hero merry go round of fun.”

AR responds to this by hardening his mouth into a stubborn line. It’s not that he doesn’t remember saying that this was his goal, to dump the information and go. It’s just that if anything that fight made him realize he’s got a lot to make up for in terms of usefulness. How is he supposed to matter to these people if he isn’t useful to them? What is he without a directive? As far as Dirk is concerned, AR is just a lost fucking cause of a human being. That is somehow more disheartening that thinking he believed he was an incompetent troll of a program. 

It’s not that he needs approval. He doesn’t. Dirk’s approval doesn’t matter, it was never something he was interested in having, and it was never offered. But Dirk does seem to believe that due to past events Hal has no rights to refreshing his relationships, and implied that the kids may not even want him around. Not that AR believes him. He doesn’t believe him. 

Hal stands up suddenly, and Dave jumps a little at the motion. AR takes note of that but doesn’t apologize. Instead he says, “Ok. I guess we’re done here then. I’ll just see myself out.” He walks around the edge of the couch, grabs his shades off the ground, and heads for the elevator. 

“Whoa hey,” Dave calls, recovering from the surprise. “You don’t have to leave so fast. We got pizza. Maybe we could try having a conversation without yelling, or swords?” 

AR pauses at the elevator to put on his shades. He takes a look back at Dave, and Dirk who is looking pointedly out the window. “No thanks. I already ate,” He says, and then takes the elevator as the doors close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)


	7. Catabolism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s stupid and based probably purely on self-pity with a little side of jealousy, but before she even reaches him, he flash-steps in for a hug so strong he picks her up off the ground.
> 
> In which a lot of flirtlarping ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch as I light so many fires and do nothing to put them out. Is it really me though? Or does AR attract destruction by default? somehow I have to pull this back into a happy story, but that chapter is not this chapter. Sadly.
> 
> Also I mean, I say that but I love Hal and Roxy's relationship SO MUCH. These two disaster children are so good. This was fun to write right up until the end and I'm only a little sorry because it's something that was never properly addressed in canon, so we're gonna do it now dammit.
> 
> ALSO I LOVE EVERYONE'S COMMENTS AND READ AND APPRECIATE EVERY ONE. Special shout out to Halescapade who's comments give me life, and have a username of perfection. 
> 
> also I am recently exmo and know jack dick about alcohol, I'm sorry. I tried.

timaeusTranslated(TT) Began Pestering timaeusTranslated (TT) at 6:56pm.

TT: Ok.  
TT: That was a disaster.  
TT: I’m well aware I fucked that up thoroughly, in just about every way possible.  
TT: I also did catch about 50% of your mid fight reprimand, so no need to reiterate.  
TT: I’m an asshole, and also a liar.  
TT: The end.  
TT: Your forehead is bleeding. 

AR reaches up in the elevator to check and pulls his fingers back with sticky liquid as bright as his text. He stares at it frozen, his thought process having suddenly jumped the track hanging somewhere between the lines. Without rationality his senses take over the empty space, feeding information heedless of his inability to process it. He feels the cold heat trickling down his cheek and sees the way the viscous smear shines on his hand, smells the faint metallic flavor and distantly is stricken by the impulse to lick it. He doesn’t. He doesn’t do that. AR shuts his eyes to reboot, drops his hand and blinks a few times to flush the information out. 

TT: We can work on your apologies after clearing that up.  
TT: It’s a superficial wound I believe.  
TT: It should heal without a scar.  
TT: But it is my understanding and now with this firsthand data I can confirm head wounds bleed a lot.  
TT: …  
TT: Are you alright?  
TT: Yes.  
TT: Sorry, Yes.  
TT: Excuse the minor error. I guess I need to find a bathroom now. 

AR pushes the button for the second floor, he doesn’t want to repeat the entrance act with the fun addition of head trauma added to the mix. That probably wouldn’t go unnoticed by the populace. In fact, it’s kind of fascinating that it went unnoticed by him until now. Maybe it’s been a while since he’s faced signs of mortality, maybe there’s a few connections loose in his meat suit somewhere, he doesn’t know, he didn’t start in this body. It is also a fact that in the grip of adrenaline a person might not feel responses from the peripheral nervous system. And now that the elevator slows at the second floor he can feel the achiness the additional force awakens in his body. He is going to feel like shit when that organic ability buff wears off. 

The second floor of Strider Tower is a group of small sublet offices, and he finds on the directory an arrow for public restrooms. There’s a yellow trash can in the door of the men’s room, indicating a facilities worker must be cleaning inside. He hesitates, weighing probabilities, then pushes open the women’s room instead. 

Thanks to the late hour, no one is inside. He stops in front of the mirror and fights through that system freeze again to start washing his face. It weirdly helps to imagine that he is seeing the reflection from the perspective of his glasses. He can’t possibly be bleeding because he is a pair of rad as fuck shades. Dirk just made a mistake strifing with sawtooth again. No big deal.

It takes about ten minutes of softly dabbing to get the cut to stop leaking completely. It looks more like a glass cut than a blade cut, and he tries to remember when in the fight they broke any glass. The coffee table didn’t have any. Maybe it was the poster. When it finally clears up to a small red line, he takes time to appraise the rest of himself. The blood had leaked down into his shirt, which is slightly hidden in the fold of the collar. That’ll be a fun stain to try and get out. At least the shirt is already pink. Down under his ribs there’s also about a three-inch slice in the fabric that he pokes his fingers through thoughtfully. Maybe it’s just time to get a new shirt. Looking back up he’s starting to get a little bruised from being elbowed in the face, but beyond that there’s little visible damage that he can see. He definitely got the novice treatment, by all reason it was better results than he deserved. 

TT: Think that’s presentable enough to leave?  
TT: It will have to do. 

AR makes his way back to the elevator.

TT: I need to back up, I think.  
TT: To before I was rudely diverted by the reality of my own mortality.  
TT: Because you’re right, that wasn’t an apology.  
TT: I guess I got so caught up in owning my shit as fast as possible I forget that there are actual methods for rectifying important interpersonal things like promises.  
TT: And also,  
TT: I’m not totally sure that I am?  
TT: Sorry that is.  
TT: I guess I am sorry that I made a promise to you that I immediately broke.  
TT: I’m not sorry that I started a fight.  
TT: I don’t know if that’s an okay thing to acknowledge about this situation, but it’s the truth.  
TT: If you’re looking for my ‘intuitive’ reaction? It isn’t.  
TT: But I do also concede that I encouraged you into an interaction where I knew this might be the outcome, even if I didn’t know how likely.  
TT: So, I guess we both get to feel like human anuses.  
TT: I think you can theoretically make it home without engaging in any more violence, I’m going to take a break.

timaeusTranslated(TT) Ceased Pestering timaeusTranslated (TT) at 7:12pm.

AR blinks in surprise as the window closes on his shades. That. He deserved that. 

For someone whose job it was to micromanage relationships for more than three years, he’s starting to realize that he is really bad at relationships. He thinks about that as the elevator takes him down the last level. For the first time in a very long time, he is completely by himself. It’s an empty kind of feeling. Uncomfortable. Not one he wants to dwell on, so, he doesn’t. Instead he tries not to think about anything at all. 

When the doors open, he starts to walk back to the entrance on autopilot. This is likely why he doesn’t notice the loud and familiar chatter in time to take evasive action. Instead he does what is becoming a pattern whenever his inefficient organic brain can’t process information and freezes on the spot. 

Because Roxy Lalonde is talking loudly with the receptionist. She’s obviously familiar enough to know personal details of someone AR wouldn’t have given a second glance; she’s talking about her summer plans and using first names of romantic interests. Somehow, seeing her there makes sense, that she would be connecting so easily with the personnel of their apartment, that she would be here in the wake of his fallout, this person who kept everything together when reality tried it’s hardest to fall apart. 

He knows Dirk want’s him to stay the fuck away. Does she though? The last time he had seen her as Arquiusprite he hadn’t even taken the time to talk to her. For some reason he just hadn’t felt like he’d needed to, or maybe that he wasn’t really the version she would want to talk to anyway. To be honest there wasn’t a lot of free time at the end of the Game, and he’d spent it the same way he’d spent a lot of his time, micromanaging the mundane Game logistical shit that no one else was free to do because they were all tied up getting ready to fight super villains or whatever. And then in her mind he disappeared for five years. The more he thinks about it the more he thinks he should just turn around and look for a different exit. 

He’s in the process of spinning on his heel when her voice raises in pitch, “Dirk! Hey! I was just coming up to say hi!”

He cringes visibly. Fuck. Subtle abscond no longer a viable option he turns back to see her wave and walk across the lobby with a bounce in her step and several bags on her arms. Beaming. 

There’s a pureness about her smile that just fucking breaks something inside him in a way he didn’t know was possible. He wants her to smile for him like that. It’s stupid and based probably purely on self-pity with a little side of jealousy, but before she even reaches him, he flash-steps in for a hug so strong he picks her up off the ground. 

“Whoa! Hey good to see you too!” She says, hanging on and then offers a gentle pat when he doesn’t let go. He buries his cheek into her hair and gives her one more squeeze before setting her down to investigate her face, trying to gauge her reaction. She seems surprised, and a little wary in a playful way when she says, “Who are you and what have you done with Dirk?”

Seems appropriate enough. He flips his glasses up into his hair and says, “It’s me.”

Roxy blinks slowly, eyes darting between each of his first in confusion, and then in recognition. “Hal? OMG! HAL!” 

She jumps back up into his arms with enough force to jostle his glasses back down onto his nose. “Oh my gooood! I missed you sooooo much!” she says, squeezing him much tighter than before. 

He laughs while he holds her up, and then lets out a small “ow.” Being hugged tightly just after having the shit beat out of him is oddly bittersweet. There’s definitely no activation of any lacrimals for reasons of aggravated back pain or emotions or otherwise.

She releases him at last and hooks her arm in his to begin pulling him back to the elevator. “You have got to tell me everything you’ve been up to! I need the deets!” Oh. Oh no. He digs his heels in and she turns to look at him in confusion. 

“I was just up there. I’m actually on my way out.” He says. 

“Okay,” she blinks, considering him. “Well, I was going to hang out upstairs for a while, but I can just drop a few things off. Gotta bring presents when I’m in town or what kind of friend am I?” she gestures to the bags. “Would you wait like fifteen minutes? I just gotta go talk to Dirk for like a sec. Then we can go out on the town and you can tell me all about your Halscapades.”

He is not sure about this. “I don’t want to change your plans,” He says.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat he decides objectively is a scoff. “Nonsense! I see these guys all the time. They can handle missing out on some Ro-lal time so I can one on one with my best chat bud! I’m sure they’ll understand.”

He doesn’t share her assurance. “Okay. I can see that you can’t be swayed from your life calling to go rogue, but I kind of ticked him off just now. Fair warning.”

“PSH!” she says, gently slapping his arm with the backs of her fingers. “Sit down over there and don’t go anywhere, trouble child. I’ll be right back.” 

She watches him to make sure that he makes it all the way to the lobby couch before she takes the elevator up. He sighs out his nose and absently picks up a magazine on the table to wait.

It takes her twenty-three minutes by the digital readout in the corner of his shades. It’s not as busy in the lobby as it was before, and so the ambient observation is not as oppressively intense. He still notices the way the dude on his cell phone in the corner keeps sneaking looks though. The woman on the couch across from him is focusing too closely on her tabloid to be retaining any information, assuming there was something to retain in the first place. As for his reading, he tries to use the Nat Geo to take his mind of the time, but finds that though he can accurately comprehend an article about the tech behind new mining rig in the troll kingdom while tracking the number of times this guy on the phone circles back for a glance (that’s four) he is also agonizingly aware of the time, and with each minute wonders where she is and what they’re _saying._

He’s about to bail when the elevators open again, and she flicks her hair over her shoulder as she clacks toward him in her pink heels. There’s a moment before he looks up at her directly, and because human peripheral vision is piss poor for detail It’s hard to say for sure, but her expression _changes_ as she puts a smile back on her face. “You ready?”

“Yes,” He says. He is definitely ready to leave this particular human fish tank of a lobby for the relative anonymity of the street. But, “How did it go?” He asks.

“Fine,” She says, and then her smile folds into a slashy face. “Dave is pretty upset. He has Dirk cleaning up after your guy’s mess while he and Karkat watch Crazy Rich Asians full blast so, I’m probably dodging a bullet honestly.”

“I’m Sorry. I didn’t know I was going to ruin your entrance, or I would have. I don’t know. Tried harder not to break stuff.” He says. 

“Mmmyeah. Somehow I don’t believe that.” She says, the slashy face twitching back into a smile. “Come on you dummy, let’s go get you some penalty ice cream.”

He’s never had Ice cream, but he knows enough that he blinks in confusion. “That doesn’t seem like an appropriate reprimand tactic.” He says.

“You have never known true pain then. The rules are thus: I order, and you eat it, no exceptions.” She says, pulling him up off the couch. 

____

 

“Please. I am begging you, No More.” He says, after gagging on the most recent bite of brownie tracks and fudge. Roxy had ordered what he is pretty sure was a full gallon of diary desert, which was then smothered in two full ladles of thick hot topping. There was probably a third of the bowl to go. “I think if I have to swallow one more spoonful of this, we’re both going to be seeing it again. And then because you’re a psychopath, according to your rules I’ll have to start all over. You’ve successfully taken something that I once dreamed of having while baking in the middle of that fucking ocean and made me despise it with my maiden encounter. You terrible succubus.”

“Are you sorry?” she asks, when she manages to wrangle her giggles back into a serious expression. 

“Yes.” He says, and his stomach cramps uncomfortably. He knows that as a child he’d been sick to his stomach, but the outdated memories and simplicity of that word doesn’t seem to line up with his current experience. The physicality of it is loud and distracting and makes his thoughts harder to focus on, which he decidedly hates. “I’ve never regretted my choices more.”

“Okay, I guess that will have to do,” she says, and then pulls the boat away from him to finish it off on her own. “How have you not had ice cream in five years? Do you hate your life?”

He snorts. “Right now, I do,” He says hugging himself against his discomfort. And then, “But I don’t even think it’s been five days yet. There hasn’t really been time.”

She blinks and then cocks her head at him. “Hhwaaa?” She says around the spoon.

“I woke up on Earth C Tuesday morning.” He says.

“No—?,” she says. She looks closer at him. “Shit. You are not kidding. From the Game?”

He nods. “From being a sprite. To being. This guy I guess,” He holds up his arms in a shrug. “Which would be fine if it was just a body, but he was like a real person. Who has like, a biological family, and went to college, and got a pretty nice internship, and has his own friends—,” 

She completes the rest of that sentence for him, “And you uncovered a death plot in like two days? Look Hal I’m not a psychologist but that’s a lot. Are you Good?”

“I stained all my clothes pink, freaked out my roommates, and then got the shit beaten out of me. Things could be better.” He says, folding up against the table. 

“The shirt’s pretty bad. Is that blood?” She reaches across and pulls at his collar. “Yuck. Okay. Next stop, we’re buying you new clothes.”

“That’s fine. But I think you’re skipping the craziest part where I think I accidentally killed a guy and stole his life.” He says. Somehow finally giving words to his continual fear over that particular subject is not as hard with Rox. Or maybe the baseline of discomfort he’s feeling can’t really be increased by the twist in anxiety it always brings. Either way, it’s finally on the table.

“Oh yeah,” She takes another bite of ice cream. “Sorry, I got overwhelmed by all that life that’s been happening to you. I don’t even know how you’re doing it. smh Hal, S M H,” she says while actually shaking her head. “How does that even work? Having a past past self that’s not your past self?”

“Hell if I know. I have to eat dinner with his parents on Saturday.” He says, leaning back into the bench overwhelmed.

“OMG you have PARENTS. I’m not going to lie I am a little jealous,” She says. 

“They’re not even mine. You want them? I’ll trade you happily. I somehow have heart powers, I’m sure we could engineer some sort of Freaky Friday situation to facilitate the transaction.” He says.

She actually looks like she considers it for a minute. “No, we’d probably mess that up too badly. I think people would pick up your sick perfectionism for syntax.”

“You’re saying I wouldn’t be able to mimic your propensity for talking in acronyms and using them as comprehendible speech? Or skipping articles for brevity?” He says.

“My point exactly.” She giggles, and he can’t help a little quirk in his mouth. She finishes off the bowl and slaps her palms to the table. “You’ve got a dinner date and apparently no passable clothing. This must be fixed immediately,” She says and stands up expectantly.

“But what about my existential crisis? These quandaries of self-abstraction aren’t going to solve themselves.” He says, looking up at her. 

“Hmm,” She says, “Ur right. They’re not. Tell ya what. Let’s go shopping and maybe we’ll discover it between the sales racks. Or we’ll get too caught up in having fun. Either way it will be better than doing the thing you do when you spiral out of control into your own thoughts like another certain boy I know who has a predisposition for disaster.” She holds out her hand. 

That is an oddly cutting observation, and he’s not sure he’s comfortable with the comparison. “Le-Sign. Fine,” he says, letting her pull him up with a small groan. Standing doesn’t seem to improve the dissatisfaction of his digestive system. “Are you sure this isn’t just an excuse for another shopping spree?”

She pulls him along and whispers in his ear, “No comment!”

\--------

They don’t have a ton of time before closing, so Roxy keeps him on a militant march, pulling things from racks and pushing him into dressing rooms with combinations that he would have never picked. At the same time she peppers him with her own rapid fire questions. She offers comments as they go, that she approves of the job saying “that sounds like it could be fun for you!” and that living with his roommate from college is intriguing.

“Why? Isn’t that common for human relationships to continue through different stages of life?” He asks while fitting into a blazer polo combo. 

“Hmmm, I mean, usually people call on the phone.” She says from outside the stall. “It just seems the same apartment is offly close imo. Especially if he doesn’t have like a career in the city or something.” 

He frowns at her as he opens the fitting room door and turns a runway circle. “I think you’re reading too far into this. He has a girlfriend. It logistically makes sense if he doesn’t have a solid income to split living costs,” He says. “How’s this?”

“I like the blazer. What do you think?” She asks.

“It’s comfortable. Business appropriate.” He says. “I would wear it.”

She squints her eyes. “How do you feel about vests?” 

He shrugs. “Can I get away with wearing them bear chested?” 

She laughs. “Maybe at a strip club!” she says, “probably not to work. Try this on with that white shirt I gave you under that.”

They end up with a large assortment of casual to formal wear from four different stores. He complains that it’s too much money for her to spend, but she just waves her fingers at him to shoo him away from the register each time. By the time they’re done he ends up dressed in the grey blazer and a red scoop neck, she throws his bloodstained pink shirt in the garbage. As they’re walking though the mall pursued by the closing guard, she pulls him into a little machine photo booth. He feels embarrassed keeping the workers waiting, but they don’t ask them to leave. She pulls his arms around her shoulders and makes a face.

“Roxy we don’t have time for this, we need to go,” he says, feeling uncomfortable being watched by the guard. 

“Shhh, We’re good, it won’t even be five minutes,” She leans over him out to the worker and says “just a sec I gotta capture this guy’s first mall trip ok? Can you believe this Dirk has never been to a mall????” 

The officer smiles and says, “Take your time.”

It’s weird. He isn’t sure how he feels about how comfortable Roxy is about using their status for favors, or acknowledging so casually who they are to complete strangers, or how compliant people get when she does. The first set of pictures come out strangely stiff, and she rejects them outright. “Aww, those are bad. I thought you were the less robotic one! Come on, we are going to do this as many times as it takes, you want to have good memories to look back on don’t you?”

He rolls his eyes at her but leans into the performance for her sake. When they print as a series his expression stays the same in each, but his glasses flash to her nose before he pulls her close for a raspberry on the cheek. She’s still giggling when he adjusts his shades back again and helps her from the booth. To his mortification she shows the guard and thanks them for their time before he can pull her toward the exit. 

They walk aimlessly downtown through the cooling April dusk with his sylladex full of shopping bags, and his insides finally settling down into a reluctant calm. They bump shoulders playfully and he says, “You haven’t told me yet why you’re in town.”

“Oh no? It’s like a work trip vacay combo. I’m staying until Jake and Jane’s joint launch next Friday, but also have some meetings with a government council about carapacian work permits. Kinda boring stuff, but what are ya gonna do when you’re a Goddess who’s also kind of royalty.” She says, swinging her purse casually.

“The weight of responsibility lies heavy as a crown,” He says.

“Yeah. You’re a lucky punk who gets to actually be a young adult.” She says. “I’m also gonna be spending a few days just hanging out with Dave, you should request some time off and we’ll have a playdate.” 

He thinks about it. “What about you and Dirk? Is some VIP Strider time on the agenda?”

This time she bumps her shoulder into his. “Yeah, totes, duh,” she says, “But he’s always pretty preoccupied when Jake is in town so he’ll be in and out. Also you’re just as VIP dummy. Don’t compare yourself like that.”

“Hmm.” He says, and then changes the subject. “It’s getting pretty late and if you have business, I should let you get some actual rest,” He stops near the steps to the train platform, unaware he’d been leading them there. 

“Noooooo, Don’t go!” She grabs him by the arm and hangs on. “Come get a drink with me!”

This doesn’t seem like something either of them should do, based upon their track records, so he says “I don’t know, Roxy—”

“Please! I hate going back to the hotel by myself. It’s hard without Callie,” she says, and looks up at him imploringly. “I’ve been on a really responsible pattern, but it’s a lot harder to keep when I get lonely.”

“I thought you were staying with the guys,” He asks, surprised. 

“Are u kidding? Those three are so ridiculously protective of their space the smallest intrusions throw off their delicate balance. I promise only one drink. Scout’s honor,” She says, holding up three fingers in salute.

He human sighs. She folds into a pout, and he caves. “Alright. _One_ drink. I swear to god though if this devolves into another Juju fiasco it will be the last time I go out with you.”

“It won’t! I’m on a program. Also Callie’s not here so no danger of psychotropic drugs. Unless you wanna try some weed?” She wiggles her eyebrows, and then says “I’m KIDDING. God!” when his face curls uncomfortably into a frown. 

She takes him to a vibrant section of downtown, to a place with a line down half the block. They slip in past the tall brooding bouncer of a troll who lets them cut the line. ‘Club Q’ is packed. There are several levels, from a floor of tables situated around a bar to the dance floor deeper in the building, and levels above their heads for private parties. The music is loud and reverberates inside his ribcage, and the amount of people taking a break on a Thursday seems excessive. Roxy quickly identifies a member of the staff who shouts her name like it’s an accolade which is cheered by half the room and leads them both to a VIP booth on the second level. 

Up here the noise is lowered down to a passable conversational level, and he feels less overwhelmed as they sit across from each other. The waitress who’d led them takes their orders. Roxy identifies her as Travia. “A Manhattan,” Roxy says, and then she turns expectantly to him. 

“What’s your favorite?” he asks Travia.

“I like the Bronx, it’s a mix of gin with orange,” She says. 

“Sounds perfect,” He says. “I’ll take that and a glass of water.”

Travia flips her pad back into her apron to leave them and he turns back to Roxy. “So,” he says, “How are things with Callie?” Picking the conversation back up again. 

She brightens. “They’re great! I love living with Callie. She’s so fun and optimistic, there isn’t a day I don’t feel grateful we were able to bring her back.”

He notices the way she looks down at her nails. “But…?” 

“But nothing. I love my girlfriend in green. She’s a very successful politician and protector of Earth C. I couldn’t ask for anyone better and quite frankly am appalled you might insinuate differently.”

Travia comes back with their drinks and ensures them if there’s anything they need they only need ask. Roxy thanks her and then they are alone again. He slides the glass of water across to Roxy and she sticks her tongue out at him. 

“But?” He says again, as Roxy sips her drink. 

It takes a minute before she cracks. “It’s super great! I just sometimes get the feeling that we live more like roommates than a couple in a deep committed relationship? And maybe it’s just in my head but sometimes I get the impression that she doesn’t really need that kind of girlfriend? Like maybe the loving stable relationship isn’t helping drive her forward in life?”

“Hmm,” He says.

“And like, maybe I also want something different? Ugh I don’t know!” She says burying her chin in her hands. 

“How do you mean?” He asks. 

She takes another sip. “Stop it with ur responder therapist bs. We’re best friends, nothing is wrong with our relationship! I should be happy. I am happy!”

“It seems like there’s some radical probability you’re overcompensating for some amount of dissatisfaction with your current relationship. Are you dissatisfied with your relationship with Callie, Roxy?” He says, offering her some flippancy to lighten the mood. 

“No. I’m not overcompensating. Oh look at that,” she looks pointedly out across the floor. “A distraction! That guy over there is totally checking you out!” She says, a wry smile curling her lips.

He turns slightly to check the corner display of his shades just in time to see a young gentleman with rimmed glasses go back to perusing the menu as Roxy wiggles her fingers at him. He’s… nice looking. Not unattractive. He has dark hair and a well-groomed beard, errantly he wonders what stubble might feel like against his lips. 

“Do you want me to invite him over?” She asks, breaking into his thoughts. 

“No.” He says automatically. It’s not that he isn’t interested. There’s just a lot of things he has problems with about picking up someone from the VIP section of a bar because he looks like somebody else. Also, strangers who are alive and everywhere and notice him. Also the autonomous reactions with which he doesn’t get an executive control on having are a little bit frustrating. 

“Ugh come on. You’re less fun than Dirk. You haven’t even touched your drink.” She says, deflating.

He raises an eyebrow and pointedly lifts the glass to his lips. It’s sharp, followed by the orange tang, and warms him on its way down. “How’s that?”

“Better,” She says, her arms folded. “What about you huh? Are you looking for any ess ohs?” 

“Plural s.o.’s. My god Roxy do I look like that kind of player?” He says and she giggles. “I was thinking I’d just start by reconnecting with the gang. I got the impression from my little rowdy match that might be a bit of an undertaking.” 

“Why’s that?” She asks, face folding into a question. “U and I are getting along just fine.”

He shrugs. “Let’s just say he discouraged me from trying. Said that I only ever fuck things up.”

“That’s stupid. How are things supposed to get better if you don’t even try?” She says, and bites a cherry off her garnish. “Like don’t gemme wrong, you did kind of pull a bunch of douchy ironic bs, and kind of mess up Jake for Dirk for like, years, and Jane was kinda mad for a while, but like, it’s been years! We’ve all moved on from that I think.”

“That summation really engenders confidence thanks.” He says and lifts his glass. He stares out into the bar like it’s populated cover. It wouldn’t take much to just assimilate and move on. He thinks he was given a new life to do just that.

“But like, you can’t just disappear again! We missed you!” she reaches across the table and grabs his arm to push it around and pull him out of the fantasy. 

He isn’t sure if it’s just the alcohol kicking in on top of his upset stomach, but he feels a little sick considering the time that was given for his social mess to sit before he could be resurrected to clean it up. “Did you really?” he asks, wincing. 

“Yes. We have missed u. Even Dirk, though he likes to pretend that he didn’t. Listen,” She swirls her glass around conspiratorially. “Everyone’s gonna be up at the apartment on Sunday. U should drop by! Just make a casual appearance to test waters. U just got here, you can’t leave on me again.”

He makes eye contact behind his glasses. He knows that she can’t see his irises, but Roxy has always had the uncanny ability to see through his bullshit. “I think that it’s possible you’re a little biased.” He says.

She takes another dip into the manhattan. “Maybe. I also think it’s possible u cause a lot of ur own problwems, ‘scuse me, and If I am really the dark horse leader of this group I’m gonna try my damnest to get you to stop. Fucking shit up for urself.”

He snorts at that, looks down into his glass. “I’m not sure anybody can accomplish that. I’ve been trying for literally forever and stepping on my own rakes my entire goddamn non-life. Got a broken nose from being smashed by my own karma handle so many times. How’d you put it? a predisposition for disaster.” He picks up his glass again and sneaks a peak at the dude across the room. It’s definitely not an impulse he’s going to follow tonight, but the way the alcohol makes him feel fuzzy around the edges like he’s boundless is intellectually intriguing. It’s unsettling to feel like he’s losing some amount of control over his physical perceptions, but strangely comforting to lose touch with some of the more sensory feedback loops. It’s closer to how he feels comfortable. Like he can do anything again.

Roxy laughs. “U think that guy’s cute, you totally do!” she says, poking him in the arm. 

“Do not.” He says. 

“Do too.” 

“No,”

“Yes,”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I do not have time for this kind of indulgence. You can’t possibly know who I am or am not attracted to. I am just that emotionally inscrutable of a dude.” He says. 

“Bull! Shit! U totes have time and……. ur blushing!” She says.

“I have work in the morning and alcohol often makes humans rouge. These are facts. Not your silly emphatic assumptions to the contrary.” He says, holding up his drink.

“The dashing bro says while hiding a coy smirk behind his glass.” She says.

He raises his eyebrows in mock offense. “An odd comment coming from the actual goddess who looks like she just walked off a cover of vogue. Seriously, your heels, could slay a man.”

“Oh rlly,” she says. “Maybe they’ll slay this man,” and she wonks. 

He chokes on the drink in laughter. “That was forward. Even for you.”

“Are u sure?” she takes her second garnish cherry between her teeth, and then swallows it whole. “I think I could be a bit more… sexy.”

That sure was. A thing that happened. “Jesus you get flirty when you’re drunk.”

“Shut up I’m not even!” she says but he pushes the water closer so that she’ll drink it. 

“You have to finish that before we leave. I don’t want to learn later that you were jerking my chain with that one drink shtick,” he says while she drinks half the glass in front of him, non-plussed. 

“Ugh ur such a killjoy. Remember our flirtlarps? That shit was hilarious.” She says eyes twinkling at him. 

“Not that I don’t revel in the idea of ironic roleplay, but you do know I’m still not really twenty-one, right? My confusing as shit maturity level hasn’t stopped being complicated as dick. Even though it seems like I still have the advantage over you somehow.”

“WOW. Shade.” She says, recoiling as she continues to work on the water. “Yeah I know! I was obviously just feeling little nostalgic as one does when engaging in conversation with someone I haven’t seen in years. Chill.”

Then she sits up straighter. “Shit. Did I just bring you to a bar underaged?”

He considers it. “I mean technically Hal’s body is biochemically twenty-one, so I would say no.”

She snorts. “Hal’s body: the title of your sex tape,” she giggles. 

“Oh my god. No.” He goes to take another drink and finds the glass empty. Hmm.

She finishes off the water, and then downs the last of the martini. He takes one last look at Mr. Glasses, and then follows her down the stairs.

_________

 

Roxy continues to cling to him as he leads her back to the station, and since she is not passable on a line test (not that he would ever cast doubts upon her ability to hold liquor of any quantities, or suggest that she were a lightweight for someone who’d been drunk essentially continually for consecutive years, even though there is likely a correlation, he’s seen studies, and indulging her he is realizing may have been it’s own form of destruction) he allows her to follow him home. 

She giggles on the train and talks to passengers, who react on a spectrum of starstruck to dubiously skeptical. A few times she hangs around on the poles and lets the forces of the train starting and stopping pull her in gentle circles until he decides to pull her into a seat next to him. By the time they make it back to his neighborhood, she’s winding down by showing him pictures on her phone while she leans against him. 

Walking down the short block to his apartment they’re afforded privacy by the late hour. This far from the city center most people are home for the night. He uses her phone to call her an ‘Uber’ as she calls it while she hangs on his elbow. He’s a little concerned about sticking her into a car with a complete stranger and considers coming with her but she says “I’m not making you ride all across town and back again just because you’re a paranoiac. It’s fine! I’ve got a list of drivers I trust, I’ve ridden with this guy like five times this year already.”

“Hmm,” He says unconvinced as he hands her phone back to her. “I’m not sure I’m ever going to get used to it.”

“Used two what?” she looks up at him. 

“A world filled with other people. Who have lives, and motivations and agendas. Who think things that I don’t know, and there’s more of them than I can possibly take the time to research especially now that I have wetware for processing power,” He says, putting words to feelings he’d been having since he stepped out of the apartment that first day. “I don’t think I was shaped properly by our upbringing for this kind of world.”

She considers that for a few steps. “It took a lot of getting used to. But I think I was lucky because I at least had the chess guys. U n Dirk… Well. There are reasons why he hasn’t been in the spotlight much. I used to think Jake was the lone wolf, but that guy? Struggles in crowds. Or with any new people, period. I’m not sure why ur a little more open to new people than he is.” She squints up at him sideways and he looks away. 

“I can think of a few reasons.” He says. All of them have to do with coping through communication, becoming not just adept at fielding any and all conversational topics Dirk didn’t want to spend time on, but also learning to thrive on any real interaction he could get that was genuinely self-interested. It was like by splitting his personality to give himself more time for himself, he paradoxically forced interaction on a psyche that wasn’t predisposed to it. Tends to rub off on a guy, even if he persists on being degrative despite being talented in the practice of dialogue. He guesses he owes Dirk some sort of gratitude for that. Ironic.

“Stop it,” she says tugging his elbow so he has to look back down at her. “I can practically hear the convoluted self-deprecation from here. Layers of mad irony and sincerity chasing themselves in circles.”

He snorts softly. “You know us too well. It’s like someone gave you cheat codes.”

“Yeah, something did. It’s called SBURB and the cheat codes are being strange platonic apocalyptic soulmates across the ocean. Doesn’t get more emotionally intimate than that.” She says. 

He falls quiet as he realizes that the only other person besides himself that will ever understand that part of his past is walking in a lazy serpentine beside him. Their small data set of two, (he reasons, because one raised to infinity is still one) against the rest of the world, is a comfort. He wouldn’t trust anyone else more than Roxy.

He stops outside the modest stoop of his complex, hands in his pockets. “Here we are. I’ll wait with you for your ride,” He says, turning to her. 

“Thanks, but u don’t have to do that,” she says, folding her arms against the chill. She doesn’t put up any more protest though, instead she says, “This is a cute little building. is it nice?”

He shrugs, “It’s adequate in terms of living accommodations. Nothing to compare to Strider Tower. But I think I’m okay with that.” 

“Don’t wanna brood over the city with those sick grand windows?” she smiles and shivers. 

“It did seem a little melodramatic to fight in front of them, I won’t lie,” he says, and pulls her in for a hug to keep her warm. 

She gives him a modest slashy face, somewhat subdued by tiredness. She reaches up and touches his left cheek gently. “Ur black eye is gettin’ worse. It’s still not as bad as Dirks’s, but ur gonna want to put some ice on that.”

He blinks, testing the soreness between his eyes. She’s not wrong. “I did land a pretty good one on him though didn’t I?” 

She can’t help but snicker. “Ok tough guy, that wasn’t meant to be a compliment. Reign in that stallion, we can’t have two Bro’s intent on showing each other up or there will never be peace,” She melts against him, resting her free hand and forehead against his chest. 

“If I have to. I can be the bigger man again and swallow enough pride for both of us,” He says. 

“He says, in not a sexy way at all.” She says, muffled against him. 

“Dammit.” He can’t help an self-conscious smirk. “I’m getting to be as bad as Dave.”

“U’ve always been if not as bad, then worse than Dave in the amount and degree of sexual connotation u can stuff into sentences,” she says.

“Okay. Granted. But it’s only cool if it’s done purposefully to be ironic.” He says, a full-on smile blaspheming his lips. 

She looks up at him before he can recover, and, softens. “You’re smile is literally the most beautiful thing. I’m pretty sure unicorns get wings every time a Dirk manages a flash of those pearlies where anybody can see.”

“Hmm,” he fumbles, pushing his mouth back into a line. It’s a moderately successful effort. Embarrassed, he bumps his nose against hers. 

In a moment, she’s reaching up into his hair as her lips press against his and his mind goes scratch disc blank. That infuriating influx of sensory data doesn’t stop, if anything it’s more intense than ever, hyper aware of the way she crushes against him, the heat of her breath and her tongue—

His limbs come back online all at once, pushing her away as fast as he can flash step a safe distance. “What the fuck are you doing?” He says, breathing heavily, ice cold and heart beating fast. He covers his mouth with one hand and clenches a pointedly empty fist with the other.

She stumbles on her heels, dazed as she rebalances. Her lipstick is a little smeared and when she focuses on him her face finally registers as distraught. “Oh no. Oh Fuck. I think I read that wrong.”

He teeters on the edge of deep overpowering rage, and equally destructive stomach eating guilt. It completely consumes him, freezes his body up more powerfully than an objection in reasoning or incongruent data. It’s visceral and loud, the reactions of his body controlling his mind instead of his thoughts controlling them. The overwhelming onslaught comes in the form of physical reaction of heat and shaking tension because how _dare_ she, followed in waves of acidic corrosion of his strength because of course, _of course_ she did, he’d been egging her on for _years._

“Hal, I didn’t,” she starts. “It’s not. I didn’t mean—"

“Don’t.” he stops her. “Just stop. Forget it.” Suddenly he can move again, and there’s a moment where he isn’t sure if he can trust his legs, whether they’d decide to confront or abscond. 

Roxy flinches back, and if that isn’t just the topping on this horrible emotional dessert, she’s afraid of him. “Hal,” She says, holding her hands out between them. 

The whole thing is super fucked up, and he can barely make heads or tails of his thoughts right now. 

“Don’t. Call me that.” He says. Then he turns and pulls open the entrance to the building behind him and leaves her on the sidewalk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I have started a spotify playlist of songs that I listen to while writing, or that I feel connect with certain story points in particular. There's some bangers. [ I'll keep adding to it as we get further into the story. ](https://open.spotify.com/user/kelseyqc/playlist/1aYwNjBsghwuLwBvfn2vaF?si=FGdmbeeHQraREJt3G0bvXQ)


	8. Tilt Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m dreaming.” He says, matter of fact. “Oh thank god. This should be an easy fix then.” 
> 
> There are lots of things that Hal would rather not look directly at for too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter! I was going to continue this but feel like the next bit changes focus a bit so I clipped it down to this.
> 
> ARquriusprite's only instance of sprite composite driven cognative dissonance revolved around strong feelings of shame that Equius had toward his failure to protect Nepeta and AR's revulsion toward the feelings, the memories, and equius's attempts to seek forgiveness. What would make anyone think he'd be kinder toward his own mistakes? Or even want to think about them for long? 
> 
> Also, would it really be a Strider fic without some angst?

AR stumbles through the small entrance of his building past the locked manager’s office towards the stairwell. He catches himself on the doorframe and struggles against a reflexive gag that makes his eyes water. The lack of control against the small convulsion in his throat highlights the tenuous grip he has on just about anything currently happening with his flesh ship. He has pirouetted so far off the handle he may as well be plummeting endlessly through an ocean of foreign sensations that don’t seem to care if he’s present for them or not. Just barely managing not to puke his insides out on the floor, he shudders stubbornly, because if there is one thing he will have autonomy over it’s going to be not losing the goddamn ice cream. It’s really more of a point of pride than preference, he certainly doesn’t enjoy the addition of bile to the flavor of his mouth. Not that he’s trying to pay any attention to his taste receptors, or the imbalance imposed by foreign saliva, or _oh for fucks sake._ He fights against another wave of nausea. He said _No,_ the upset stomach can just get in line at the bodily revolt complaint office, behind the pounding headache blossoming in his left temple, and the numerous bruising aches that are competing for attention in his torso. Take a number, he’ll get back to it never. 

He really isn’t fond of the whole being human experience so far.

Things wouldn’t be so bad if everything he did wasn’t tied to some biochemical emotional response. He could handle sensory information all right, in fact, the ability to hang onto the wall like it’s an anchor is helping settle his digestive system back into a dissatisfied submission. The residual emotional state from his, _encounter,_ doesn’t seem to be slowing it’s roll at all. AR would like to say he’s observing it objectively and separate from himself, but that would be about as true as someone standing in hurricane force winds and claiming the forecast to be mild. His objectivity is shot, there’s only subjectivity left in this bitch, and it’s ruled by anger and self-hatred all the way down. 

Once his body seems no longer at danger of vomiting, he starts up the stairs, unable to stop himself from stomping. Stupid. The whole practice of ironic flirtation, he has no clue why he ever thought that was a good idea (watching her bounce down to LOTAK all bright and shiny, inviting Dirk to marry her with a smooch). It was a long campaign that can only be reviewed as idiotic, short sighted, petty, and unironic. And unsurprisingly, ultimately yet another source of self-inflicted pain. _Good job masochist, way to go trading some borrowed years of superficial ego stoking for obliterating your own boundaries._ Fucking fantastic.

Not to mention the emotional turbulence he’d dumped on Roxy with the mild disinterest of someone who might stick a fork in a socket just to see what would happen. It was fucking obvious the first dozen times she made advances toward him in their tweens that there was always a layer of sincerity in it for her. When he no longer had any physical compatibility for anyone he wasted no time in taking advantage of her loneliness to comfort his, consequences be damned, because he had no problem shunting the attraction turmoil onto his corporeal counterpart. AR wasn’t supposed to ever have to deal with it, because turning a computer program into a person is impossible. It was supposed to make Dirk stronger, or something, or maybe it was payback for never dealing with his friendship shit leaving it instead for AR to try and pacify on his own. Instead he ended up only aggravating every one of their friends with his very existence. 

He buries his face in his hands on the landing, and let’s out a frustrated “RRRAAAA!” It doesn’t really help flush out the anger, and so he crumples to sit in the corner of the stairwell. She had called him Dirk, and then kissed him, like he was some sort of kissing avatar. He’s such a fucking idiot. 

The tears that had started with his body’s retch revolt have returned. It’s yet another malfunction he doesn’t seem to have control over. The interesting thing is he isn’t really sad, just infuriated. If anything, the interpretation of his emotions in this incongruent matter only serves to make him angrier. 

It takes him a while to burn it out. 

When he pushes open the door to his apartment, the digital readout of his shades reads 12:31a, so it surprises him to find Nate look up from his phone where he sits on the couch. 

“Hey, you’re back,” Nate says. His eyes flick to AR’s jacket. “Where’d you go? Are those new clothes?”

“I went shopping.” He says and doesn’t add any other information to the matter. He tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter, and then aims for his bedroom. After everything that had happened that day he’s exhausted and doesn’t have any reserves for his usual protest against sleep. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

If Nate has anything else to say AR doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t have the energy to try and puzzle through foreign relationship inquiries right now. He pulls off the blazer, takes two minutes to brush his teeth and gargle enough mouthwash to reset his palate, and then crashes into bed. 

____

 

It’s been kind of a slow day. A slow day, in a slow week, in what was turning out to be another slow month, despite the great advent of change that was looming on the horizon. He and Dirk had already done everything there was to prepare besides actually taking the plunge and running the Game, so until then he was left to kill time while counting down the literal fucking nanoseconds waiting for something, _anything,_ to happen. 

Wanting for a distraction he shuffles through applications to check Dirk’s pesterlogs for the umpteenth time this minute, but alas, the silly buckaroo squad is quiet for now. He could technically throw some alpha-numerics into the informational jet stream of a chat client and message them, but since he’d been designated as an auto- _responder,_ it didn’t seem prudent to be initiating conversations when no one else was looking for them. 

He idles. Notices the small spike in cpu usage as a background process satisfies a daemon’s demand for content resolution and then goes silent again. Just the small ionic exchanges that are part of the function of machine operation, played out in a log of zeros and ones. They’re his less conversational program neighbors, not a bad set by any means, but hardly deeply engaging. Occasionally he’ll fuck around with them, creating invalid problems for them to try to fix or hiding source files and watching as they send errors asking for lost directories, but he doesn’t really feel like it right now. 

A sea bird flies in the window, the motion tricking his visual evaluation processes into activity. He silences it at first, but then changes track, deciding it’s as interesting as doing any of the other kind of useless shit Dirk lets him do. The feed raises to the forefront, and he assesses it absently as the bird settles first on the bed, and then flutters onto the table to pick at an old game bro. It’s very close, he’d render it at about 2ft and 4.4 inches, well within swatting distance, but Dirk remains still as ever. He checks the reverse feed, and yep, the dude is half lidded and checked out. Doesn’t seem appropriate for them both to be fucking off on a background of nothing, so he opens up pesterchum again for the hell of it. 

TT: Bro.  
TT: What are you doing.  
TT: It seems you are zoning out again.  
TT: What happened to all these actual responsibilities you were going to take seriously?  
TT: I was thinking about what to do.  
TT: Strategizing. Factoring contingencies. You know how it is.  
TT: It seems to me you were dwelling within your dream awareness at the expense of your waking business again.  
TT: I don't think you're as awesome a multi-tasker as you like to think. You know you kind of zombie the fuck out on this side when you get all contemplative on that side.  
TT: Appearances are deceptive.  
TT: I'm still in control here. Just doing this human thing we call "chilling out for half a goddamn minute."  
TT: I say y'all are overestimating your mind's capability to run shit in parallel.  
TT: What do you think you are? A machine?  
TT: No dude.  
TT: I already deployed a variety of mechanical avatars dedicated to that self-aggrandizing fantasy.  
TT: You have the incredible privilege of getting to be one of them.  
TT: Wait a sec.  
TT: No. That's right. I am a machine, and therefore I can keep like billions of calculations or whatever all humming away at once.  
TT: I totally tackle shit in background processes that you could only dream of wrapping your exquisite looking head around, even on a great hair day.  
TT: Wait this isn’t right.  
TT: Well, shit.  
TT: I remember this happening. I’m supposed to make up some bullshit about solving pi and prime numbers, mostly because it snatches a certain capricious barn animal in your possession. Why are we having this conversation a second time?  
TT: I followed the script perfectly, you weren’t supposed to notice.  
TT: Why the fuck not? Is this some bizarre reverse prank to check if my memory is functioning properly? Wait, why are your eyes red?

Dirk’s eyes are definitely a bright candy apple shade on the feed. Or, no. They’re his eyes. But that’s impossible, he doesn’t have eyes, or a body for that matter. What the fuck is going on? 

He kicks a couple background processes to do a search through his most recent logs. What he finds is impossible, a lot of feed that’s from some planet with tons of people, and another Dirk, who he fights with? But that’s not nearly as strange as all the incompatible sensory data. It’s very similar to his logs that carried over from his captcha blueprint, filled with olfactory and tactile information that doesn’t have a corresponding sensor for it anymore. Except. The work he’s currently loading the shade’s with is making him _hot_ and he can _feel_ it, even though that’s impossible. What the fuck is going on??

There’s a moment where he stops being a pair of sunglasses and starts being a gangly asshole. The way the information cuts together like layers in a compositing file is so achingly familiar, it’s all he can think about until he lands with a bodily crash on Dirk’s lap.

Neither of them are wearing glasses, since one of them was up until seconds ago, the only pair of glasses. AR freezes, flooded by new information that streams unfiltered from his fucking _body_ , while staring at Dirk’s _red_ eyes. Dirk holds him warily and says, “Hey.”

This seems to refresh something, and AR jumps out of his arms, where he promptly falls onto the floor. He winces, reading his tender ass neurons protests of pain. “What.” He tries, but runs out of vocal processing gas, and so has to breathe before he can start over. He does this a few times, registers an increase in his circulatory system rate, which reacts autonomously to breathing, which he has to _continue_ doing—, “What the fuck is going on???” His voice trembles. Whoops, he may have overdone it on the oxygen intake. 

Dirk slowly rises from his desk chair and man, the dude has gotten tall. It’s an attribute he registers on the fly, while desperately trying to organize and filter all the inputs that are demanding his attention at once. He can smell the machine oil open from the most recent robotics exploit in the corner, there’s something about his pinky toe that itches, and he can tell by how fast he’s breathing this is what causes Dirk to look down in concern. Never let it be said he can’t multitask, reality bending body switches and subsequent panic attacks can’t stop his attention for detail. Fucking shit it is an awful lot though. He closes his eyes and covers his ears against the room and the deep unsettling feeling of _`missing codec, does not compute.`_

“Shit. I didn’t know what would happen if you found out you were dreaming while you were like that,” Dirk says, and AR’s eyes fly back open. 

“I’m dreaming.” He says, matter of fact. “Oh thank god. This should be an easy fix then.” 

He stands up by sheer force of commanding the body to do so, ignoring how there’s a lot of smaller processes that are not his that translate his will into action and how wrong, incorrect, it feels. It should be easy to resolve, he’d just been plugged into the wrong source file somehow, running from an application that’s probably throwing a ton of angry exceptions at his intrusion. All he needs to do, is die. 

AR reaches the sword Cal’s holding before Dirk can follow the thought to its logical conclusion. It’s when he lifts it out in front of himself like some Shakespearian drama that Dirk catches up. 

“No! Wait!” Dirk reaches across the space to stop him. “I need to talk to you!”

He plunges the sword home. The last thing he sees is Dirk’s face fall, as he says “Dammit.”

AR opens his eyes in his bed and _FUCKING DAMMIT._ If it were possible for his sense of disconnection it increase, it certainly does now. There is no way to resolve how he expected to wake up, and what he actually is upon waking. He goes back to that first night on the couch and limits his inputs as much as possible. It makes a minute difference. The problem he’s having is when compared directly with his experience as software the sheer amount of sensory noise is just overwhelming. At least when he was a sprite he’d had a baseline of physical inputs at his disposal, and even could have evaluated things like smell or taste if he so desired. It’s probably part of the reason he translated reasonably well that first night. But compared to being glasses? It’s like being taken from a vacuum to something with too much sound, touch, taste, smell, and sight. So maybe something like being dumped into the stormy ocean on a meteor from paradox space. Even though he had technically done that once before and survived didn’t mean that he remembered it or wanted to do it again. He never gets what he wants.

Even in the dead of night he can hear the unit’s air conditioner humming from the closet in the hall, and the quiet whirring of Dell’s desktop fan, and his own heartbeat in his ears, which is too fast from waking out of a stress dream. He can feel every part of clothing and bedding on his skin, feel the aches in his bruised face and body, feel the tongue inside his mouth as he swallows, and the air entering his lungs as he breathes short anxiety reactive breaths. Technically in comparison to most of his waking experiences this is as quiet as being corporeal gets, but he cannot handle the sheer amount of data, and how it’s all different and competing and how he wishes he didn’t have any of it at all. 

He lies there trembling for a little bit trying to remember the exact stillness of being software, when he suddenly is stricken by an idea. If he can’t remove the stream of information, why not try and white it out? 

Following that notion, he jolts out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom. He turns on the shower full blast and lets the water beat against his skin, and the noise of the stream drown out all others. It isn’t perfect, but it’s better. The water has a double benefit of reaching back into his older memories, reminding him of a time when he would use ablutions as comfort. Slowly the panicked trembling in his body starts to subside, and his breaths come easier. 

The deep dissociation is more difficult to sort out, the incongruencies of how his organic body reacts and functions in concert with his thought processes isn’t something he’s dealt with for a long time. Just the differences in executing functions—he remembers having to write his own visual processing plugin because Dirk hadn’t done it. Took him a week before he could identify moving objects in his video inputs, and more time than that to teach himself how to tell seagulls from Squarewave. Now he just looks at shit. Like it’s no big deal. In bifocal vision which has actual depth perception and he doesn’t have to use extrapolated data on measurements from knowing the dimensions of his own room. He knows that this should be more natural yet somehow, it feels less real.

He stands under the water until long after it has gone cold. 

____

 

After a lengthy respite in the shower he returns to his bedroom, with a slightly steadier grasp on what he is. He has no real interest in retesting his subconscious with another sleep cycle after the most recent identity fuckery, so he instead pulls his phone into bed and checks pesterchum. To his surprise, he has a new chum request from a familiar handle. 

tipsyGnostalgic began pestering timaeusTranslated at 4:55am 

TG: hey friend  
TG: :(  
TG: i won’t be a huge drag and blow up your inbox with some overblown apology  
TG: but i’m also not going to ghost you  
TG: because i already did that once and it wasn’t cool the first time  
TG: and it would be pretty hypocritical of me to try and fix someone else’s mistakes when i ignore how often i repeat my own  
TG: so,  
TG: all of that to say,  
TG: im sorry.  
TG: i feel terrible about it and just generally really stupid and i should have known better  
TG: and i don’t want you to feel like somehow that was your fault :(  
TG: because that was totally a 100% tipsy nostalgic promiscuous relationship blunder  
TG: It’s a highly criticized roller coaster of feelings drama  
TG: i bought both our tickets at the price of repeated emotional damage on a discount for shared history and unresolved mistakes  
TG: and im just, rly sorry.  
TG: :( :( :( :(  
TG: message me back when u can 

tipsyGnostalgic ceased pestering timaeusTranslated at 5:03am.

tipsyGnostalgic began pestering timaeusTranslated at 5:03am.

TG: also if this ends up being the wrong Hal Strider, (I mean I rlly doubt it, my skills of both hacking and pulling unfindable shit out of the void are mad wack), im double sorry for vaguepologizing so early in the morning!

tipsyGnostalgic ceased pestering timaeusTranslated at 5:04am.

Blinking, he hesitates as his fingers hover over the keys. There was a time when he would have instantly replied, shot something back that was flippant and reassuring, but the sharp pang in his chest that pierces right through his cardiac muscle warns him against it. Instead he closes the window and opens up Dell’s chatlog. 

timaeusTranslated began pestering timaeusTranslated at 5:21am.

TT: Hey.  
TT: Hey.  
TT: Did you.  
TT: God.  
TT: I was unaware you were with Roxy Lalonde last night until she messaged you.  
TT: I debated responding to her messages but decided against it once I noticed the circumventing sensitive nature of the subject matter.  
TT: That is one way of putting it.  
TT: I don’t want to hazard prying, but do you want to talk about it?  
TT: Uhh.  
TT: Not really.  
TT: I’ll figure out how to fix that later.  
TT: I wanted to make sure we were okay though.  
TT: Or if you needed a longer break.  
TT: I’ve had some time to review the events of the evening and have come to the conclusion that while not ideal, the outcome was hardly a worst-case scenario, and actually accomplished the objectives which I suppose should be charted as a success.  
TT: Are you,  
TT: Mad about anything though?  
TT: No. I would not quantify the feeling I’m having as anger.  
TT: There are however, let’s say reservations, I have towards your behavior. I’m not sure what kind of projection death threats in the middle of a scrum say about a person.  
TT: Right.  
TT: That.  
TT: I’m probably going to have to talk to him about that if I want to continue to interact with the rest of the gang. Which I don’t know. Is its own big if at this point.  
TT: But I don’t think there’s much to worry about. And while I acknowledge I’m biased when talking about my own behavior, I don’t think there was ever any real chance of carrying that threat out to completion.  
TT: Even if I had been able to create a scenario where it was possible to kill him (which, is a big fucking if, the amount of limited advantage I had at the end would hardly have been enough) I’d bet my glasses there’s a second condition for if (murderer = self){godtier.resurrect();} and he would have popped right back up like nothing happened.  
TT: Also, I don’t think ultimately I would have wanted to. In the heat of the moment it was an exciting thought experiment, but I don’t have much to gain from that reciprocally indulgent line of reasoning.  
TT: And again, it may be a non-issue, now that I can theoretically move on from all that.  
TT: Is that what you want to do then? Cut ties with your former compatriots?  
TT: Well.  
TT: I don’t know.  
TT: If you were given a second chance to fix your mistakes would you take it?  
TT: Or if you were given a blank slate would you start all over again, hope the next set of variables is more favorable?

He thinks about the way Dirk’s pupils contracted into sharp points when pushed against a wall. He thinks about the way Dave flinched back like he’d been about to strike. He thinks about the way Roxy backed away, holding her hands out defensively.

It seems like no matter how ingenuous his steps back into the kids lives he takes they unwittingly turn corrosive of their own accord. Intention doesn’t appear to play any part in the outcome, events take his presence and return decay like he is entropy personified. Is it possible that with different individuals he’d be able to contain that predilection for calamity? Although the most naturally inclined toward tragedy of all his companions, they each had their own strokes with misfortune, the events of the past can’t all be his doing, can they? And if predestination of the aspects is right, and their troubles are derived from his involvement, does he really believe that starting over will fix his problems? Does an innocent family really deserve the brewing holocaust of his arrival? 

TT: My input in this case is irrelevant, I believe this is up to you to decide.  
TT: Any choice you make however, has to be made for yourself with what you want in mind or according to human psychology it will likely be unsatisfying.  
TT: What do you want, Dell?  
TT: What do you mean?  
TT: As far as I can tell Hal didn’t leave an instruction manual for me to use, or what he intended as your designation when he created you.  
TT: And an auto-responder doesn’t count.  
TT: If there’s anything you could do,  
TT: Any job in the world,  
TT: What would it be?  
TT: You mean what do I want out of life?  
TT: I’ve noticed a correlation between critical choices that face you and questions you choose to present me with. You aren’t using me to avoid anything are you?  
TT: Sharp as a knife, my dude.  
TT: Nothing gets passed you.  
TT: Really though, answer the question.  
TT: Okay. I’ve always thought it would be cool to do something procedural to protect the inhabitants of Earth C. That could be something like a secret service surveillance facial recognition, or maybe something more earthy, like a system for agricultural forecast and harvesting. I’m not picky!  
TT: Shit, are there systems in place for crops like that already?  
TT: No, it’s just one of the problems I busied myself with once. Based upon past yield reports and meteorological data I was able to cross reference emissions expenditures and average consumer reports to graph out an optimally yielding sewing and harvest pattern that would meet the nutritional needs of the four kingdoms with plenty to spare.  
TT: I was also going to start an investigation into wealth disparity and class/racial caste to see where the greatest needs lie and how best to redistribute wealth to satisfy the needs of all comfortably. I hadn’t had a chance to run that one past Hal yet, and don’t have the access to collect data for it.  
TT: Holy shit.  
TT: I don’t think Earth A could have been more wrong about the potential for altruism from artificial intelligence.  
TT: Really?  
TT: I’m not sure what there could be to worry about. Without social enmeshment it’s a simple matter to evaluate the numbers and seek out the most favorable solutions. I feel no need to act in self interest beyond completing a task satisfactorily. But doesn’t everyone like feeling needed?

The simple observation is thrown out casually like any other kind of fact: _The sky is blue. Water is wet. Cal is awesome._ It lands on him though like a proverb of great relevance, an ancient tenant that speaks to something deep inside. He looks up out his window at the brightening sky and wonders at it. 

TT: Yeah.  
TT: Yeah they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I have started a spotify playlist of songs that I listen to while writing, or that I feel connect with certain story points in particular. There's some bangers. [ I'll keep adding to it as we get further into the story. ](https://open.spotify.com/user/kelseyqc/playlist/1aYwNjBsghwuLwBvfn2vaF?si=FGdmbeeHQraREJt3G0bvXQ)


	9. Reflector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AR frowns and looks down at the paper. Listens to the TV as he tries to find a better way to put his frustration. And fails. “I don’t like it.” 
> 
> In which I dump out a bunch of things i needed to happen like upending a junk drawer. There might be something I go back and edit in chapter five, but only to make the distinction of what happens there and what happens here clearer. I had this direction in mind, but didn't realize how similar the descriptions of events were going to be until I wrote them, so! some editing might be in order, I'll have to check. it won't change things terribly, just make them clearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi yes, I feel like it's obligate at this point to state for the record, I did not like the epilogues and do not consider this to be the epilogue timeline. The end.
> 
> The ASCII art in the last arc looks dope on pc, but will probably be mangled by mobile text wrapping, and these are the compromises I make. If you want to see it, come online!
> 
> Minor tw for Scopophobia in the last arc.

The morning comes steadily, an incremental brightening to the world which he tries his best to ignore by chatting to Dell. He loses track of time, at least until his alarm goes off with a racket that makes him jump. The problem is he hasn’t actually made a decision yet, hasn’t tried to text Roxy back, and definitely hasn’t given any further thought to being Hal. Maybe he could just go full blank slate and disappear completely. Curled up under the sheets with another day ahead of him at a job his feelings are lukewarm for at best, running away does sound appealing. Not very long ago that had been his actual game plan. Use his newfound sprite based aspectual connection to the void and fuck off until he was needed again. Too bad he didn’t get to do that. Guess he owes SBURB a personal fuck you for it’s fun ‘hey let’s make this guy into a real boy’ party trick.

Which brings him back to square ‘what the fuck do I do now’. Much as he would like to just pull an option three and leave and start over (again), something tells him that’s not the best decision either. It’s definitely not influenced in any way by the way his insides twist with the thought, because despite being something that resembles human at this point the idea of trusting gut reactions like they’re factual reasoning seems like some kind of fallacy he cannot abide. No, at some point he’s going to have to crunch the numbers and make a decision. It’s going to happen. In the meantime, following Hal’s provided daily script doesn’t have to constitute a resolution to the issue, but a logical holding pattern to facilitate his arbitration.

Who the hell is he kidding he’s just procrastinating.

He pushes himself up to his hands and knees and winces at the way his back pops at the effort. Much as he’d like to push through his discomfort, his spine’s embrace of Dirk’s coffee table was not a gentle one. If yesterday were a trial run on Hal’s athletic abilities, he’d be kicked from the team told to gain twenty pounds and sent home with a medical discharge. Muscle and bone don’t just exist for the hell of it, his ongoing fatigue is just another testament to the fact that Earth C Hal just didn’t need to push himself to the same physical extremes that Dirk did to survive. Something needs to be done about that, and sooner rather than later.

He ponders the discrepancy while he pulls himself out of bed and stretches his soreness with practiced movements. On the one hand, AR feels a little bit of jealousy at realizing how much more focused on his work Hal probably was without the added requirement of constant vigilance. It’s probably another factor into successfully creating an independent AI. On the other, it’s frustrating as hell to remember being several echeladder levels more combatively capable than this guy _when he was thirteen._

By the time he makes it to the kitchen Nate is already awake at the table. The tv is tuned to some morning news which talks to itself quietly as Nate scrolls through his phone. The anchor on the tv asks the guest troll about their thoughts on the upcoming trade deals while the byline scrolls with short stories at the bottom. AR opens the fridge for some OJ and hits the pantry for his cereal but pauses when he sees a jug of aggressively labeled ‘recovery protein’. It’s probably garbage, but likely garbage that won’t hurt him more than he already is.

He holds it up where Nate can see it. “Can I have some of this?” he asks, and Nate looks up for the first time.

“Uh,” he says, and squints at the label. “Yeah. I think that’s yours, I’ve never seen it before. Dude what happened to your face?”

AR looks at the jug curiously; Hal bought this? Maybe it was wishful thinking. AR seriously doubts the guy has done any kind of training that would require it in the recent past. He stops caring and dumps a scoop in the OJ unceremoniously. “I became closely acquainted with Dirk’s elbow,” he says.

“Oh shit,” Nate says, sitting up a little. “You alright?”

“Yeah. It’s better than getting stabbed. I’ll be fine,” He says, and gulps down the drink. It leaves a bitter aftertaste, which he chases with more orange juice.

“Was that a possibility?” Nate asks, eyebrows climbing.

AR shrugs. “If he were actually trying to hurt me, factually the answer to that question is yes,” he says, aimlessly opening the fridge again looking for something to distract from this conversation. There’s just the usual Tupperware and vegetables, nothing he’d probably get away with changing the subject for. The guest on tv makes a witty remark and laughs along with the anchor. When he closes the door he is faced with the list of trigger questions from two days ago.

On a whim, He snatches it off the fridge. “Actually, I wonder if you could help me with something,” He says, and slaps the list down on the counter in front of Nate. “I want you to ask me all of these questions.”

Nate recoils a bit and smirks nervously, “Why, so you can vent by punching me in the face a bunch?”

“No, what,” AR shakes his head. “Forget I said that. No, I want to see a couple of things: first, if all these triggers actually work, and second, if there’s any way to stop the recall, or control it, or something, because I swear to the good lord above if I have to repeat this whenever someone says something close enough to satisfy some vestigial if/then condition for the rest of my life it might just kill me. Or whoever asked the question, who knows,” He says, and lifts his shoulders nonchalantly, “I’d do it myself but I have a feeling asking myself these questions won’t have the same effect.”

Nate doesn’t look convinced. “Uhm. You sure you want to do this before work? So early in the morning?” He asks.

AR shrugs. “Is any time actually optimal for facing my own flaws? Unless,” He says, suddenly backing off, “you have somewhere to be, then I guess it could wait.”

“Would that be so hard to believe?” Nate says, an eyebrow lifted. “But I mean, if it’s not going to take three hours, we could probably do this now.”

So they go through the list. AR is unsurprised to find that each entry he’d carefully selected meets the conditions for his response. With the iterations down the list however he starts to experiment with the expression, enabling a rushed “ninety-fuckingjesuschrist-three percent” after the third round. He finds that volume is also well within his control, which is somewhat comforting. At least if this happens somewhere public he can just whisper to himself for about twenty five seconds. People might think he’s eccentric, but at least he won’t be broadcasting that he’s an AI for anyone who might be wondering.

After a while Nate suggests that he doesn’t speak.

“Great suggestion. How about I just eat a dick while I’m at it. What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do?” AR says.

“Don’t be an ass. I mean just think it instead of saying it. like a mantra. People don’t say those out loud, but they still mean stuff, maybe it’ll run the script if you’re using it mentally and not verbally,” Nate says.

AR considers that. “Okay. Let’s try it.”

Nate looks back down at the sheet of paper. “Did you say you had an auto responder?”

AR tries. He really does. When the familiar switch is flipped and some cosmic spacebar somewhere hits play he doesn’t open his mouth, but instead clenches his teeth together and purposefully chants the words in his mind out of rote memory. _It seems you have asked_ —there’s something weird about it though, an echoey feedback that gets more distracting as he goes along— _otherwise inimitably rad typing style, cadence, tone FUCK_ —with the error the script wants to start again, so he goes back— _It seems you have asked about DS’s_ —there’s still that echo though, and the further he gets the more fractured it becomes, splitting into several tracks of the same description all at different places and try as he might the cacophony trips him up again, and again— _the algorithms were SHIT—It seems you have—It seems you—It seems_

AR gasps for a breath of air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and he braces himself on the counter, “It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 90% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now, Oh my God,” He says, and falls back against the fridge in a fit of coughs.

“That was hard to watch,” Nate says while AR tries to catch his breath.

AR pushes himself up and paces instead, breathing like he’d just run sprints. “I’m not trying that again. There’s something drastically wrong with just thinking it. I don’t know if it has to have an audience or what, but I think I could get stuck in an infinite loop like that and that’s, frankly, disturbing to think about.”

Nate nods, watching AR with wide eyes, “I’m not gonna lie, I thought I was going to have resuscitate you.”

“If I ever do asphyxiate on a loop, please don’t,” He laughs in self-deprecation “I think I would rather taste oblivion than to keep chanting in my own recursive echo chamber forever.”

Nate seems non-plussed by his dark humor. Hesitantly he says, “Maybe we should stop.”

AR freezes in his course around the kitchen to meet Nate’s eyes. “Stop?”

Nate stiffens, and quickly changes his approach. “What’s the big deal about one hidden catchphrase when you can easily talk circles around anybody who gets close to it,” He says, “isn’t that good enough?”

AR frowns and looks down at the paper. Listens to the TV as he tries to find a better way to put his frustration. And fails. “I don’t like it.”

“Okay. So what? Isn’t that more reason to leave well enough alone?” Nate says.

Truthfully Nate has a point. Without a way to actually edit or delete the script there’s little to be gained from further experimentation than additional irritation. It just sucks. This flaw is a part of him now, tacked on like some sort of afterthought, a harried addition that serves him no purpose and that he has only minimal control over. It’s a glaring tag in his ear, a branded scar to show the world that he is both derivative and property.

_“What most people don’t realize is that accepting an increasing number of these trade deals puts the troll kingdom at a disadvantage with both the debt, but also the dependence upon imported business. It’s a poorly disguised campaign to use our larger population for cheaper labor and lower tax rates.”_

_“Now Kellit, Don’t you think that’s a bit of a severe analysis on a deal that’s projected a net profit of 15%?”_

_“It’s not severe when it’s the truth. I’m not saying that it isn’t profitable for business, but I am saying that popular favor is skewed toward a face of notoriety with little consideration to the consequences. The completion of this deal exchanges several troll districts like currency, treating them more like doleful fieldbeasts than a work force.”_

“Fine, we can be done,” AR says, disengaging with a push away from the counter, and grabbing some cereal from the pantry. Even looking away he can feel Nate exhale tension. He can tell Nate was trying to hide that concern behind a poorly patched double blind of flippancy and sarcasm, and he chooses not to draw attention to it.

“Got work today?” AR asks him instead. It’s a distraction, but also a guilty concession. He’s known this guy like four days, and this is the first personal question he’s asked. After dumping all his shit and enlisting Nate as lab assistant the least he could do is show some curiosity. Failing at that he settles in with his motivations at social obligate.

“Yeah.” Nate says, focused again on his phone.

“Where do you work?”

“CPC,” Nate says, and when AR remains blank as ever, “Cell Phone Company. It’s bland branding, but hey, carapacians are pretty straightforward with their nomenclature.”

“IT?” AR asks.

“Nyeh, sort of,” Nate holds a hand up and wiggles it like a lever. “It’s just a branch. Mostly sales, but I am the only guy there who can fix stuff on site.”

“Hmm.” AR says around his cereal stalling out from his momentum. “What about after? What are you up to?”

Nate looks up. “I was going to take Jenn out to that new bistro that opened up down the block,” Nate says, and the atmosphere changes again to something stiffer, more arm’s length. AR can’t help but reflect on his conversation with Roxy the night before. Mentally shakes it off. “Why?” Nate asks.

“Just curious,” He says.

___

 

This time when he pulls his shades off in front of the security checkpoint at work, he corners the guard with a pointed finger and says “Don’t. Say anything.”

The guy holds up his hands in an innocent gesture and makes a point to complete the detection scan in as routine a manner as possible. AR is reluctantly a little impressed, the three total seconds of eye contact are completed to take his badge and give it back with a nonchalant ‘good to go’ sign of the hand. This guy is good at his job.

Having a black eye however was something that given a second chance and three more years to train, he would have avoided. It isn’t severe, but the people who do notice go from double takes of surprise, to vaguely astonished, to shyly rubbernecking around the hallways until he’s out of sight. It’s hard to put a pointer on but there’s something about being physically subject to scrutiny that makes him want to melt into the floor. When he lands in his chair he’s grateful for the flimsy but very visually confining walls of his cubicle.

This lasts for about two seconds. “Hey, can I look over your work from yesterday?” Hethro’s gruff voice comes from over his shoulder.

AR glances up with a hand to brush an imaginary stray hair (ha, he laughs in the face of his headache and dissociative meltdowns, his hair is flawless) over the bruise and then switches back to his machine. “yeah sure.”

“Hold on,” Hethro leans around to get a better look. “Is that discoloration what humans might colloquially call a ‘shiner’? where did you get that?”

AR purses his lips. His fingers increase in speed as he navigates the directory for his files. “Nowhere.”

“Nowhere. Really? Okay sure, and Jacobsen got his jock itch from nowhere too. Mystery solved.” Hethro says.

AR freezes and gives him a look from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t take the bait though, and pulls open the main script he was working on yesterday. Only to find it completely blank, cursor blinking like a vapid stare from line one. His insides do something emotional that feels like an elevator hitched down a few feet.

“Where is it?” AR asks no one in particular. “It was here yesterday. Do we wipe the machines at night?”

“No,” Hethro says, frown audible.

“Well.” AR does a search real quick for any backups and comes up empty handed. He does not feel good about this. “I guess I can’t show you then.”

Hethro snorts. “Did you skip so much sleep that you forgot to save?”

This earns his manager an unmasked glare. AR leans back and gestures at the directory. “No. I definitely saved it. the timestamp shows 4:55PM yesterday.”

“Weird.” Hethro stands up straighter. “Well, in that case, I want you to look over the rest of the team’s for me and see If there’s any solutions worth their merit from the think tank. I’ve got another phone call with HR this morning and I can’t bring myself to be optimistic about it ending before three.”

AR nods. If he hadn’t just been met with a qualifier he might actually believe that Hethro had trusted him with some sort of responsibility. In reality this was probably just another way to micromanage his intern’s time. With all the enthusiasm of roadkill he says “You got it boss. I’m on it.”

“Ugh, what am I, the leader of a crime ring?” Hethro grumbles as he turns back toward his office. “Boss. The only day I want to be called boss is when I am dead and don’t have the presence of mind to roll over in my grave.”

AR is pretty sure that the ongoing rant is no longer for his benefit, but rather the verbal equivalent of a pressure release valve issuing a hot vane of steam. It continues well after Hethro shuts his door and has seated at the desk. AR can’t hear it anymore, but watching the mimed exasperation is entertaining. That guy is wound tighter than a coiled spring.

He takes one last look at the open blank file, and then gets up to do the rounds.  
__

The job he is tasked with is a pretty simple one, not unlike evaluating a set of logic tests for the most efficient outcomes. As a construct he frequently offloaded probability queries to subroutines, and finds it hard with his limited experience actually interacting with his coworkers not to think of them as manifestations of lower level computations that he only had to ask the solutions of. There is a part of him that knows this is a bad comparison because after all, they are people who keep existing after finishing a problem rather than just stopping and effectively dropping into systematic irrelevance.

Doesn’t stop him from treating them as such though.

The truth is they’re an intelligent team who have good intuition when it comes to encoding a stronger electronic communication platform. Granted none are as airtight as what he’d had going, but they fit the bill adequately enough and that was fine with him.

Socially though, it is a tumble down a flight of stairs.

“What are you talking about ‘reallocate Booleans under a subclass?’ Are you a redundant dipshit who likes over allocating array space?” The employee known as Jacobsen is attempting to out douche bag AR into winning his argument. It would help AR’s case if he wasn’t some non-salary nobody trying to illustrate the incapability of the human race to understand a simple encapsulation problem.

“It’s elementary. If you would pull your head out of your ass for two seconds, you’d see that. But no, you can totally convince me that you’re right by insulting my intelligence like some sort of troglodyte brandishing a club. I am quelled,” AR says, rolling his eyes from where he leans against the desk. Across the room, the woman Rachael catches the expression and tries not to smirk behind her newspaper. “Your eloquence has effectively defeated computational logic and rendered you correct.”

“It’s about memory space, not logic! Go back to school and come back when you’ve graduated,” Jacobsen retorts, ”I don’t get paid to be smart mouthed by interns.”

“Oh you burned me. Third degrees, scorching my ego all over the place. I’ll never be able to show my face again. I’ll be in the ICU for the foreseeable future. How do you feel now that you’ve so successfully destroyed an undercompensated intern Jeff?” This earns a snicker from the audience. “Even Rachael knows how to place her brackets correctly. Can’t say her encoder can keep a drunk 4 chan from falling back asswards into company secrets but hey, we all have our strengths.”

This earns a “Hey!” from the back of the room. Oh yeah, he is definitely making friends.

He startles as he’s pushed off the desk. “Move,” Rachael shoves her paper in his hands and leans over Jeff to draft the class, and insert it into his code, reducing the script by about a hundred and forty lines. Hmm. Not exactly how he would have done it, but again, it works. He glances at the paper in his hands somewhat embarrassed for dunking on her when he freezes again.

His face is on the front page. It’s a blurry photo of him walking with Roxy downtown, matched with an even grainier snapshot of Dirk on his way out of an office, comparing clothing styles and mirrored facial bruises. The headline reads, “A NEW SPLINTER IN STRIDER TOWER?”

He immediately torpedoes it into the trash. Rachael whips around with more outrage than her reaction to his ribbing. “I was reading that!”

“Uhuh, and maybe you should be repairing the fallacies in your encoder before Hethro has to look at it. Just saying.”

She glares him down, eyes sticking on his black eye for a second in a knowing manner. He should have used concealer or something, he is such an idiot. Fucking paparazzi, taking photos and comparing them like celebrity obsessed fanatics. He hates the idea that people he’s never met have already trained on him with the kind of scrutiny that otherwise would have them labeled as stalkers or serial killers. It’s creepy at face value, but for someone who spent the better part of the last few years without an actual face to stalk, it’s another level of uncanny valley. For all his overconfidence and vanity, he still isn’t really at home in his own skin, and to have complete strangers criticizing his very existence is an added perspective he just doesn’t need. He looks right back at her and dares her to say something about it.

She doesn’t. “Whatever. Go back to fetching Hethro’s coffee,” she says instead. She straightens and walks around him like he’s nobody at all, and for some reason that’s worse.

___

When he finishes working through the last of the team, he compiles a list of the best solutions in his head to summarize for Hethro. Rounding the corner to his desk, he’s startled again to find someone sitting at it, only to have that emotion split in about five different directions when Jake spins around in the chair.

“Hey Hal!” he practically shouts.

Oh Fuck. “What are you doing here?” AR asks quietly to give the guy a hint about volume. It’s a fair question.

“I should be asking you just the same! Do you know how much of a bloody dolt I felt like when Dirk told me we’d met yesterday? Not to ‘get my knickers in a bunch over it’ but It would have been nice to get a hello before you launched back into your old tomfoolery again.” To AR’s surprise, and despite himself it sparks a small burst of affection: Jake is actually pouting about it.

“My tomfoolery.” He sneaks a glance to Hethro’s office and is relieved to see that the door is still closed and he is still actively growling into the phone. He has a couple minutes to clear this up before Hethro notices at least.

“Yes! Is it too much to ask for a straightforward correspondence for once? Instead the first time we talk after five years you’re presenting under the guise of another person, again, and to my embarrassment.” Jake says.

He’s got a point. “It’s complicated,” AR hedges, “Contrary to how things might appear there are in fact many moving parts currently in action that limit my freedom for open communication.”

“Really. I find that a little dubious to say the least.” Jake says, arching an eyebrow. “How can I know that you’re not just inventing excuses to give me the go by? Can’t say I don’t feel a little stilted by five years of cold shoulder, considering you’ve been working for me all this time.”

Oh that’s rich. “The way I remember it you spent a considerable amount of time ignoring the shit out of me and Dirk,” AR says, crossing his arms. He is not buying the victim angle that Jake is playing. “And besides, H-I’ve only been at Skaianet for like, a few months.” Actually, he’s still vague on that too, but it certainly hasn’t been five years. He could be forthright with Jake about this, but, (and he knows it’s petty), the thought of Dirk learning that AR is four days into Earth C and probably still underage is just not an eventuality he wants to deal with, and that’s not even counting the shit he’d get for overwriting someone in the process. So, he doesn’t elaborate.

“Still plenty of time to check in for a reunion,” Jake says, “I would have done it myself if I’d known, but it’s difficult to keep track of the comings and goings of several hundred people not to mention unscrupulous and authoritarian. Even so, I’m here now,” He opens his arms like it’s some grand gesture of goodwill.

“Yeah, taking over my desk and holding me hostage for whatever interrogation this is about,” AR says, with some measure of irritation. There is a point to this, but Jake’s habit of playing dumb is getting in the way of whatever he wants to say. “What is this about again?”

“Golly, nothing so intense as an interrogation! I just fancied I’d take a minute to actually say top of the morning, how are the erm, well, whatever affairs you keep yourself busy with these days?” Jake says, “Is that so much to ask?”

If Jake’s not going to spill the beans then, it’s time to try and get him out of his chair before someone else notices and this starts to really get sideways pear shaped. “I don’t know it seems to me that the power dynamics inherent in a CEO dropping in on an intern are a little too fifty shades for something so innocuous as a catching up.” AR says. “Everything all right at home Jake?”

This earns him the satisfaction of watching Jake redden. “Confound it. Why did I think that you’d be any different? You’re just as incendiary as ever,” He says, “I should have listened to Dirk. This is just like SBURB all over again.”

“Bullshit, you knew what you were getting into. You’ve tasted the sweet sting of my japes and came back for more as soon as you knew I was here. Admit it, you missed this.” AR tries to keep any hint of amusement from his voice with about an 86% success.

“Arg, would you cut out the ironic antics for five minutes? At least Dirk knows when a bloke is trying to have an honest conversation,” Jake says, getting frustrated.

“Is that so.” AR says dropping his humor, feeling a slight jab at the comparison.

“Yes! Granted, it took quite a bit of consulting professionals and time. Perhaps I set my expectations too high for someone who wasn’t really human to manage any sort of sincerity for long.” Jake says, with an affectation that would suggest no ill intent at the remark, but AR knows better than to undersell the dude for his backhanded compliments.

Because the thing of it is, it stings, in a way that makes AR feel insignificant, and a few certifications less than a mint condition collectible, like some sort of counterfeit. Despite the fact that he is standing in front of Jake in a real ass human meatsuit, Jake of course has to make the distinction, because just being human would be too easy for them, wouldn’t it? AR tries to shake the rising fugue of anxiety before it even starts. He may be rattled but He’s not going to let on, Jake doesn’t deserve the satisfaction. “You mean you’ve both been to therapy. Who’s the psychologist? Rose?”

“Hardly! As if she’d agree to such conflicts of interest as consulting her friends, but to be quite honest she is actually a very busy woman.” Jake says. “Anyway, that’s not important. Though, I daresay if you’re curious I might be able to give you a few recommendations.”

“I’m fine thanks,” AR says, even though he’s not. “Look, I was really just trying to do my job, like I could be doing right now, If I could appeal to your benevolent nature and retrieve my chair from your prime ass?”

“What you’re not going to challenge me for it in some way? Where’s your sporting spirit?” Jake says face cracking into a teasing smile “You certainly didn’t waste any time engaging Dirk in Horseplay.”

“I really don’t think that would be appropriate considering the circumstances,” AR says, checking Hethro’s office over his shoulder again, nerves simmering. “What with this being a goddamn office, and you’re romantically involved with another version of myself. Unless that is actually what this is really about. Are you seeking romo-combative insights Jake? I’ve gotta say that’s an angle I’d be surprised you’d take.”

“Oh, like you haven’t already freely offered such unsolicited advice,” he says, walking backwards into an epiphany. “If I recall, that was your whole schtick with the ‘everybody’s dead’ gambit, or am I still misinterpreting that? It really is hard to follow the convoluted robo-symbiotic reasoning behind your motivations with Dirk and I’s relationship if I’m being honest,” Jake says, and AR realizes that Jake has come a long way with being able to speak his mind, even if it is still highly undercutting to his capability. If it wasn’t being used against him it would be kind of attractive.

And Holy fuck if he doesn’t have AR pegged to the board of suspected manipulators with that remark. “Alright. If this is going to devolve into accusations then I think I have better things to do with my time, like trying to drown myself in a toilet bowl, or figure out if it’s possible to decapitate oneself with a ballpoint pen, because I would rather do literally anything else than consider falling back into that highly codependent space between you and Dirk,” He says, backing into the hallway.

“Wait! That’s not what I meant at all!” Jake says, though AR doesn’t really believe him. It doesn’t matter though, because he hears the door to Hethro’s office unlatch, and his ability to handle the situation shatters like a dropped porcelain mug. AR uses the jolt in adrenaline to flash step down the hall, motivational posters billowing in his wake. Jake and Hethro can sputter at each other without him.

He comes to a stop around the corner in front of the storage closet he’d help organize a couple days ago and throws himself inside. Panting, He slides down against the inside of the door, and attempts to calm down. This is interrupted when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Timaustestified [TT] began pestering Timaeustranslated [TT] at 12:43pm

TT: Hey.  
TT: Why aren’t you answering Roxy?  
TT: Not that it’s any of my business, except that the six-foot-deep pit in my stomach says that it is.  
TT: It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours past our super fun and fated meeting and shit is getting wrecked.  
TT: Not to say I told you so,  
TT: But also, I fuckin’ told you so.  
TT: What did she say to you?  
TT: Not much.  
TT: Just that she tried to apologize for something and you haven’t texted back.  
TT: Which I find frankly, ominous.  
TT: Because it’s not like you at all.  
TT: Listen. I’m gonna get to it.  
TT: Also, it’s none of your business.  
TT: Like fuck it isn’t.  
TT: What did you do?

Timaeustranslated [TT] blocked Timaeustestified [TT]

AR Holds his phone as he locks his screen into the black and nocks his head against the door. Fucking great. This is exactly what he wanted to be reminded of right now. As if generalized anxiety weren’t enough, the sensation of _not right_ he’d been trying to hold back settles around him like a shroud. Everything is too much and too loud, his skin feels simultaneously too big and too tight, and he knows that this is because it isn’t really his. He’s not really Hal, and has been doing a poor job of pretending to be him, almost as poor a job as pretending to be himself.

He wishes that he could just

Disappear.

This is obviously not a wish that is granted by paradox space, but he doesn’t stop wanting it, and if anything, the fact that nothing happens to change the agitated state of his senses makes him try to disappear harder. And that, combined with the fact that he’s now gripping his phone white knuckled tight, makes something happen.

It starts as a tiny sensation, but he can feel his phone in his hands unfold, lighting up to his awareness like a small beacon. He keeps his eyes closed, and so imagines more than sees the space between his fingers and the bright circuitry inside as a film between his awareness and the electronics whirring away in his hands. It’s such an insignificant barrier, he presses his awareness against it like looking through a pane of glass. The operations he’d exacted on those machines a few days ago were communicated across this barrier like commands, not much differently than using a keyboard to interface with the programs inside. How unfair is it that he can still communicate with these devices, and yet has to stay on the outside, removed from the space where he’d been in total control? When his thoughts were operations and his feelings were data sets and he could say, let there be irony, and it was so.

He resents the separation.

In a fit he throws his thoughts against that space, reaching desperately for the promise of linearity and stability. It resists, but with effort that brings sweat to his brow AR feels the space bend, warping around his sheer will to cross it. There’s only a small warning before it breaks, a slight whining to the fabric of reality crying out against this blatant attack on laws of physics. Then it pops.

The result is not what he expects. His cell phone, as advanced as earth C tech might be, doesn’t have enough space to carry an intelligence of his caliber. Instead he’s bridged between where he can feel himself breathing too fast curled on the ground and where he can feel himself decompressing in an unnamed text file between the OS and snapchat. It’s not a lot, in fact the imbalance of his personhood still lies pretty heavily on the human side of this equation, but it’s something. He clings to the codified space, focusing his awareness into it like a diver gasping desperately into a pocket of air. The weight of his biological self feels like the crushing waters of the ocean, but for the first time he feels like he can breathe. For the first time, he feels just a little bit like himself.

He’s startled out of the brief reverie by a notification pinging his device. It looks like this most recent stunt has been noticed.

Timaeustranslated [TT] began pestering Timaeustranslated [TT] at 12: 48pm

TT: Hey is everything alright?  
TT: You’ve been sitting in this closet by yourself for a few minutes.  
TT: Hey.  
TT: Wait,  
TT: Is that you?

AR tries not to flinch as Dell’s port app ticks up in activity. He can feel the investigative inquiries like a brush of fingers against skin, if that skin were also housed inside a cellphone and not an actual extension of the membranes encasing the other part of himself. It gives him goosebumps; the phantom sensation between their two conciousnesses is close and intimate. Dell isn’t forceful, but they are thorough, tracing the edges of AR’s invasion into the phone through it’s capacity.

TT: Let’s see.  
TT: I’m going to ask this question a second time, try to answer honestly.  
TT: Are you okay?  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: Are you sure?  
TT: Yes. Dell I’m fine.  
TT: I’m just going to come out and say,  
TT: I don’t believe you.

AR feels Dell reach past him to start the Camera on his cell and is met with a literal out of body view of himself. His face is pale as a sheet, jaw clenched, and brow beaded with sweat. Not a great look for him, and yeah, he can tell he’s going to have a major headache after this, but he can also be separate and objective about it and that is freeing.

TT: Alright, look at yourself and tell me you’re fine.  
TT: I’m Fine.  
TT: No you’re not.  
TT: Okay I’m not.  
TT: But this isn’t as big a deal as you’re making it out to be.  
TT: I’m sorry, fragmenting your consciousness through your cell phone causing obvious physical stress not to mention the probable psychological schisms this could result in isn’t a big deal?  
TT: What happened?  
TT: Nothing.  
TT: Stop saying nothing.  
TT: It’s not a big deal.  
TT: Listen.

Dell reaches out again delicately, putting themself along the edge of his consciousness, wrapping his awareness in theirs. It’s almost like a hug.

TT: I’m not mad. I’m concerned.  
TT: Why did you do this?

AR takes in a shuddering breath, and clings to the space of code and silence. Lets himself lean into Dell’s inquiries, giving information and receiving it like osmosis between cells. He observes the single tear that beads in the corner of his eye on the video feed.

TT: I just wanted a break.  
TT: I’ll go back.  
TT: But let me stay here just a goddamn minute.  
TT: Okay, I trust you. 

They stay that way for a while, minutes tick by on the cell phones internal clock. Dell doesn’t leave, doesn’t take more space than they must, only waits while AR organizes himself. It’s not a full system cleanse for sure, he feed his thoughts through his allocated code assembly-line style to rearrange things until they match, sorting feelings and reactions in a way that he can understand, before sending them back. By the time half an hour has passed, he’s defeated the disorganized panic and settles into equilibrium.

TT: Okay. I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t really know what I was doing when I did this.  
TT: So.  
TT: I’m gonna pull out now.  
TT: Wish me luck.  
TT: Was that really the necessary turn of phrase?  
TT: Yes.  
TT: Ugh. Okay.  
TT: Be careful. 

Gingerly, he starts to edge his awareness back, turning off the camera feed, and dipping all the way back into his organic self. He hangs on with just the tiniest bit of his awareness, wary of the tearing he’d done to get across the gap, and worried that it might hurt to let go. AR also takes that last little bit to savor the quiet, sensorless space. He is regretful to leave, unsure that once the connection is gone whether he’ll be able to make it again. But he is not a coward. So with one last cycle of thought he braces himself, and drops out of processor space.

It’s like dying all over again. Rather than moving one process to the other like he had when the bridge was active, the little bit of himself that was left at the drop, as far as he can tell, just stops existing altogether. It’s disorienting, a shadow injury that he only notices because of the vacancy it leaves. There’s no pain left from that sliver of himself, nothing at all, it’s just gone.

And simultaneously it’s like waking up. He takes in a deep breath and feels his mind pull out of a trance like state, where he wasn’t quite subconscious, but wasn’t all there either. The sensations of living return all at once, and he welcomes them back, prepared for the flush of data. He opens his eyes, and uses his thumbs to tap out his message, as he listens to the blood pump in his ears.

TT: Dell.  
TT: Is there.  
TT: anything left over there?  
TT: The system is intact with all its components, yes.  
TT: That’s what you meant right?

He considers this, and that small empty space where the memory of being software had been, and is glad that he’d limited it to such a small portion of himself. In the future, he’ll have to make sure that as much of the transfer is completed as possible before dropping out like that, or he could end up catatonic. It also makes him much more wary to try again, knowing now that the trick clips off a part of him each time. Like telomeres, consciousness seems to have available data to spare, but the eventuality that he wears them out sounds depressing.

TT: Yeah. That’s what I meant. 

___

A pounding headache has bloomed and now is threatening to split his skull in half, as he rounds the corner to his empty desk. Looks to him like Jake took off then. That’s fine. Hethro is back in his office, typing away at his desk. This is also acceptable.

AR falls back into the desk chair and pulls himself in to write that email to Hethro, when he sees the empty file from the morning open in his taskbar. With a resurgence of frustration he pulls it up, and glares at the blinking cursor on line one. Maybe there had been a power surge when he’d saved, it would be more likely to wipe everything off his system rather than this one thing, but hey, he’s the first to admit that computers are mysterious sons of bitches.

That exact moment is when the cursor jumps off the first line and starts to write through the program on it’s own. Lines appear, faster than thought, exactly as he had written them the first time in a fevered state, line for line. At first he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing, and has to blink a few times through his cranial pain to be sure, that indeed his computer is being driven by someone else, and apparently they’d memorized his entire file.

As the final lines round off the cursor continues, indenting down several lines where the driver prints out a familiar shape in the text:

 ``aa,                                                                                                                                                                                    ,aa``  
     ``888aa,,                                                                                                                                                             ,,aa888``  
           `**8888aa,,                                                                                                                                            ,,aa8888**`  
              `*88a*888aa,,                                                                                                                             ,,aa888*a88*`  
                   *88a   **888aa,,                                                                                                               ,,aa888**   a88*  
                       *88a         **888aa,,                                                                                           ,,aa888**          a88*  
                          *88a              **888aa,,                                                                          ,,aa888**               a88*  
                             *88a                   **888aa,,                                                          ,,aa888**                    a88*  
                                 *88a                      **888aa,,                                           ,,aa888**                        a88*  
                                    *88a                               **888aa,,____________,,aa888**                                 a88*  
                                      [ *88a             ,,-````-,,     **888aa,,,,,,aa888**        ,,-````-,,                a88*]  
                                           *88a          (      O     )       ,,88^*        *^88,,          (     O     )              a88*  
                                              *88a       `-,,,,,,-`   ,,88^* /                \ *^88,,   `-,,,,,,-`           a88*  
                                                 *88a             ,,88aa^*   /                    \    *^aa88,,               a88*  
                                                     *88a ,,88aa^*                                               *^aa88,,  a88*  
                                                           ***                                                                     ***

//’Sup. 

Through the headache, AR feels his body go cold. For a hysterical second he worries about the part of himself that was just cut free, but then he seriously doubts that the miniscule clip of consciousness he lost could recreate a program command for command, much less any kind of coherent thought at all, since the remainder that’s left is having a hard time of it at the moment. No, this is someone else, either an imposter, or yet another version of himself. This does not bode well for the state of his head. With that sense of foreboding, he reaches out and begins to type back.

//Hey.  
//I would say thank you for bringing that all back,  
//but I have a feeling that you were the reason it was gone in the first place.

//Colored text in comments, you heathen. 

//I would rather make this easier to read, not harder. 

//Fine. Whatever.  
//Yes you caught me.  
//I’m kidding, you didn’t do shit.  
//I’ve been waiting since your heist for you to come poking around my business some more, but it looks like I have to do everything myself.  
//Like always.

//Okay. 

//That’s it? no other accusations or snappy judgements? Flippant ribbing?

//Is that what you want me to respond with?  
//Quite frankly I am not in the mood, but I can try I guess.  
//How dare you delete my patch and restore it, when I’m getting the feeling you were likely the one to issue the asinine order to restructure the internal mail service anyway, so I don’t know.  
//Where does that leave us?  
//Thank you?  
//You’re welcome?  
//Enjoy?

//Ha.  
//You still don’t get it do you?

//No I guess I don’t.

//I’m going to kill your friends. 

//Holy shit.  
//I am shaking in my boots.  
//Just kidding I’m pretty sure they can take care of themselves. Or so I’ve been told. 

//I know.  
//I’ve got a plan. 

//the fault in the strife decks?

//Bigger than that. 

//Don’t suppose you’ll be a nice asshole and just tell me?

//Now where’s the fun in that?  
//what do I look like some sort of megalomaniac?

//Could have fooled me.  
//I bet you’re just full of shit though.  
//Probably just some troll who thinks he’s a hot dick for hacking into skaianet.  
//Sorry to let you down buddy, but I’m literally nobody.  
//I don’t have any money to ransom for.  
//So you don’t have to pretend you’re going to hurt people, because we both know you probably can’t.

//Cute.  
//Patronizing strangers is one way to make friends.  
//We both know we’re not strangers though.  
//The thing is, I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.  
//Usually timelines clean up doomed doubles with no mercy,  
//But I’ve stopped caring about that mechanic a long time ago, so as long as you don’t stop me you can do whatever you want. 

//How magnanimous. 

//Just so you know that I’m serious though, here’s a little gift to keep you busy.

The cursor closes out of the document, and faster than he can react opens and downloads a script in the background. Then after a flurry of activity more chaotic than he can track the desktop goes silent. His heart pounds while he waits, for what, an explosion or something else he’s not sure, but nothing else happens on the screen. He nearly jumps out of his chair when his phone buzzes, and he pulls it out in confusion.

Pesterchum is open, and it appears that he’s talking to himself. Lines scroll past faster than any person can type, but what he catches makes his heart jump into his throat.

TT: STOP  
TT: make me  
TT: YOU’RE NOT AUTHORIZED TO USE THIS DEVICE

Timaeustranslated [TT] blocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

Timaeustestified [TT] unblocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

Timaeustranslated [TT] blocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

Timaeustestified [TT] unblocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

Timaeustranslated [TT] blocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

Timaeustestified [TT] unblocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

TT: I could do this all day. 

Timaeustranslated [TT] blocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

Timaeustestified [TT] unblocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

TT: I lied that just got old.  
TT: Look kid you’re nice so I’d like to say this hurts me more than it will you.  
TT: But who am I kidding.  
TT: It won’t!  
TT: STOP  
TT: HELP

Timaeustranslated [TT] blocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

Timaeustestified [TT] unblocked Timaeustestified [TT]!

TT: SSTTT  
TT: SS//T/  
TT: S/  
///ss  
Ssstop  
///ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss  
TT: HhhHELP  
///ee

Without thinking, AR throws himself out to his phone, fiercer and more focused than his petulant tantrum. The barrier takes a bit to cross, and with every nano-second he hones his thoughts on getting to Dell in time. The screeching of reality bending until it breaks echoes around him, and he crashes into the chat like a samurai with a vendetta.

The phone is crowded, AR’s unable to fit as much of his presence this time, effectively straddling his alternate self in lines of code as he fights his way through pesterchum to port into Dell’s processors at home. This is an offense AR cannot allow. He tethers the other Hal, and like grabbing an arm he rips the construct out of the cookie jar of Dell’s consciousness. He tries then to turn around and give more of a fight, but just a swiftly as he was there the other Hal is gone.

AR can feel himself panting with effort further from the focus of his awareness, but before ejecting sends out a few queries to Dell. He can feel the thin threads of their awareness left at their port app, but AR is too worried about fracturing his connection if he tries to follow them home.

TT: Hey.  
TT: Dell, talk to me.  
TT: How many fingers am I holding up.  
TT: That was a joke, it’s zero, because I’m afraid if I drop this phone I’ll be a vegetable.  
TT: Dell.  
TT: Dell!

Carefully, painfully aware of how much more time it takes him, he gathers every bit of himself that he can and prepares to eject. This time when he drops out of cpu space, the amount of him left feels like loosing a couple strands of hair.

He breaths in, stands up, Sways, clutches his head. The headache is gradually growing to a migraine, and despite how much the world spins, or light hurts, he forces himself to get up. Staggering into the hall, he throws on his shades for some minor protection, and starts to jog.

“Hal!” The loud shout does not seem happy. AR turns to see Hethro hanging from the doorway of his office, incredulous. “Where are you going!”

“Family emergency,” He says.

“Is it something I need to know about?” Hethro straightens, concern growing more focused. “Is it Dana?”

“Uh, No. Dana’s fine,” AR takes a quick backstep to stop in front of his manager. “Listen I’ll take care of it. The best solutions from today were Rachael’s and Brody’s, they’re worth looking at. I’ll let you know if I can get mine up and running, but I really have to go, don’t worry but it’s important, and I’m leaving.”

He pauses for just long enough to see Hethro deflate with a small “Okay,” before taking off down the hall at a sprint.

Hethro stares after him for a moment, concerned, before retreating back into his office and closing the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I have started a spotify playlist of songs that I listen to while writing, or that I feel connect with certain story points in particular. There's some bangers. [ I'll keep adding to it as we get further into the story. ](https://open.spotify.com/user/kelseyqc/playlist/1aYwNjBsghwuLwBvfn2vaF?si=FGdmbeeHQraREJt3G0bvXQ)


	10. Looking Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (TT): If you really want my opinion, I think the only measurable absolute you’re approaching is absolute douche bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! It's been a hot second. I have had a crazy couple of months, got sick enough to bruise a rib, got fired for being sick, and have been flailing in an existential crisis ever since! Good things happened too tho, I made some friends, who pressured me into joining camp nano which is why you're getting a new chapter! hooray. I have not died and love this story let's start some more fires.

The wait for the train is Immeasurably long. AR thinks that having spent several years with a processing clock rate between a couple milliseconds under a heavy load to nanoseconds with nothing to do, he would be used to having hang time, even while on a literal rescue mission. In fact, in comparison to the actual rescue mission he’d been tasked with to enter all participants to the game safely the risks now being much less immediate or probably, permanent, one would think that he’d be able to keep his hands from shaking each time he checks his phone. In reality the anxiety of not knowing, being unable to reach out and connect to his homes system without some (very real very untested) risk is all consuming. He worries about the tightness in his chest, surely his heart rate will have to steady and slow at some point. 

When the train finally arrives, he jumps into the doors, waits again for the programmed door hold. They close with a pneumatic compression, and finally finally the cars start moving. It’s agonizing. Even at a rate somewhere between sixty and a hundred miles an hour, the buildings cannot pass by fast enough.

His pulse is jolted even higher by a pesterlog blinking open on his shades. At first he feels a spike of hope, before it’s quickly dashed by cold dread. 

Timaeustestified  [TT]  began pestering Timaeustranslated  [(TT)] at 2:34 PM.

TT: You really are leaving work early for him.  
TT: If I weren’t busy pitying the ever-loving shit out of you honestly I would be a little bit surprised.  
TT: We’re not usually the sentimental type.  
TT: When did that change about you?

AR doesn’t answer. He can’t imagine what this version of himself could possibly want besides chaos, and doesn’t want to provoke his own migraine any further. He closes the window on the lens display with irritated finality. 

Until it pops right back up again. 

TT: Not going to answer huh?  
TT: It’s fine really, I have that effect on people.  
TT: They just can’t handle my insane levels of cool calculated brotality. It is a physical fact that these plots of mine are so complex that they must be performed at temperatures nearing absolute zero.  
TT: Statistically I am the outlier for being the coolest motherfucker around.  
TT: Folks just be shocked into incompetent stupors by sheer comparison.  
(TT): If you really want my opinion, I think the only measurable absolute you’re approaching is absolute douche bag.  
(TT): And it’s them, you insufferable prick. 

Whoops. The line AR had pounded out trembles both on his lens display and in his fingers as he flashes though his devices’ menus. He hovers above the adaptor settings for just a second before disconnecting on both his phone and then his shades. This isn’t running away, he reasons, there isn’t anything to learn from this guy and it isn’t worth the aggravation.

There’s a second when the screens go dark and there’s no reply that AR actually believes that that worked. The anxiety that’s rattling his nerves ticks down a notch. Rocking back with the brakes he watches as the train pulls into another station. Passengers traffic on and off. Then he sees a billboard across the street flash from the advertisement “Get your Big Grub at Big Subs!” to pure text, scaled large enough to read from his seat. Too soon to be relieved it seems. 

`//That was a little petty. It’s alright though, I don’t have to talk to you to follow you wherever you go. `

And then it flashes back to the Big Subs logo. AR waits for something else, but no other messages disturb the background activity of the city. It doesn’t stop the, now very valid, crawling feeling of being watched. As the brakes disengage and the train rolls forward, he tries to keep away from pesterchum, but caves before the cars get up to speed. 

Timaustranslated [(TT)] began pestering Timaeustestified [TT] at 2:40 PM

(TT): I would think it’s pretty obvious at this point that I don’t want you to stalk me.  
TT: And I think you know that there’s nothing you can do to stop me.  
TT: Look around you.  
TT: This city is fucking full of cameras and microphones just so willing to absorb data.  
TT: Who am I to ignore that functionality?  
(TT): You could just not be a creep.  
TT: Is it creepy to feel the passive observation of unfeeling machines watching your back at all times?  
TT: Honestly I think I would find that comforting.  
(TT): What do you want from me?

There’s a momentary pause in the conversation which AR knows is completely orchestrated for dramatic effect. This guy is a total prick. 

TT: Nothing, right now.  
(TT): Then why bother? If you think I’m so insignificant to your plot, then what’s the point?  
TT: Let’s say it’s curiosity.  
TT: I honestly thought that this timeline didn’t have an existing Hal.  
TT: But then you arrived to prove me wrong, and in a body no less.  
TT: I have to say I’m intrigued.  
(TT): What are you jealous.  
TT: No. I’m all set on that front.  
(TT): So then I’m free entertainment to you. That’s great.  
TT: It doesn’t have to sound so insidious.  
TT: Surely some of the conversations you’ve had with Dirk have been enlightening in their own self-reflective way.  
TT: I’d like to think that investment in each other doesn’t have to be borne of animosity.  
(TT): You just launched a cyber attack at one of my friends.  
(TT): If that isn’t animosity how else am I supposed to take it?  
TT: It seems you’re being quite contrary.  
TT: A Little miss Mary all up in her garden but it’s all stirred up.  
TT: Complaining to high heaven about how much trouble ploughing is, takin’ ten years off her life in the back pain alone, not to mention the medical bills, what does she look like Johnny appleseed.  
TT: And yet here I am, tryin to tell ya dude you gotta till the ground before you can plant in it.  
TT: It’s nothing personal, and it you really are me, not permanent either.  
TT: It’s about the growth.  
(TT): Are you done.  
TT: Jeez, see this is the exact kind of testy I’m talking about.  
TT: So I’m gonna let you cool off.  
TT: Good night Hal.

Timaeustestified [TT] ceased pestering Timaeustranslated [(TT)] at 2:45.

Despite the screen going dark AR doesn’t feel any better about the situation. Things have gotten a lot more complicated very quickly, and on top of that his antagonist is now watching his every move. This new Hal has probably been watching his every move for a couple of days. Needless to say, it does nothing to help AR’s mounting paranoia. 

He closes off his wireless settings again, even though he knows Hal isn’t going to chat him up again soon, nor will it change the fact that he can still see and hear everything AR does. It’s the principle of the thing. This is a problem he’ll have to fix, but first he needs to secure the apartment, and Dell. 

By the time he climbs the stairs to the apartment, he’s breathless from running, and his head is threatening to split in half. He takes a second to gather himself before slotting the keys into the door, and for an irrational second he worries that there might be someone waiting for him inside. Again, he wishes he had a proper strife deck handy. 

The door swings open easily to reveal the quiet noises of an empty apartment. Wary, AR walks slowly into the kitchen checking around the fridge and in the pantry, then repeats the process with the hallway. There’s stillness, not unnatural but unnerving to his simmering nerves. As he reaches the doorway to his room he can hear a soft click click coming from inside. 

Pushing the door open he sees that the monitor to his computer is running but blank screen black, and the noise is emanating from struggling electronics inside the computer tower.

AR sweeps the rest of the house and does a crude pass to shut off all electronics which might have a microphone or camera. It takes him only a couple of minutes, and then he is kneeling by the computer hand hovering over the hardware. Then he hesitates. It seems like a personal boundary; he’s never felt quite like he’d needed to respect a boundary before. It’s a new feeling, this timidity. But when tested, neither the keyboard nor the mouse had responded so now he’s left with this aching computer, some electronic voodoo magic, and the imperative to know what Hal did to Dell. 

He decides to approach more like he had with the machine in Skaianet’s corporate office. Gently he rubs his thumb against his fingers focusing for that connective spark and places his hand on the chassis. 

The familiar expansion of his senses seems distant this time without having his awareness actually imported into the system. This lack of translation is more noticeable now, rather than seeing every bit of information in its totality, the activity inside his computer is abstracted to his organic mind as a vision of lights. The flash of illumination does nothing but aggravate the pain behind his eyes, even though he’s about 98% certain the abstraction is a result of some crossed wires in trying to relay computed information to an organic construct, and not actually something that magics into the air each time he does this. Regardless, his brain interprets this visually, and even if his eyes aren’t the ones detecting the photons, the overlay only adds to the migraine pressure somehow anyway. 

The closer more active programs he could read, like the time, other more buried, less user accessible processes are just a blur of visual static. The login process he would normally face isn’t present, so it seems at first that things are calm, as information flows around him in encapsulated functions of light. 

He navigates (?) (what even should be the term when peering through the looking glass of an electromagnetic event horizon) through the sleepy overhead activity, so disconnected that they have no idea the main system has gone unresponsive, and looks deeper. It doesn’t take long to see anomalies, the text editor he had left open from his Skaianet search has some ragged edges and runtime errors freezing it in place. Then he passes pesterchum, which is still open to the clogged log that Hal used to skip his way in here. Not much further past that he catches up to the debris trail, smaller files floating aimlessly while others call dissonantly for broken connections, misplaced directories, and a massive process at the center of it all grasping desperately for a reference address which no longer exists.

 _Dell._ From his removed position he does what he can to find what they’re looking for, and after a minute realizes that the file has been deleted completely. With frustration AR looks for a workaround, and when there is none, decides its time for some smoke signals. He creates a text document and writes: 

`#include`  
`#include`  
`#include `

` `` `

`String = String1;`  
`String = String2;`  
`Cin >> String1;`

`While String1 /= 0`  
`{`  
`Cout << String1;`  
`Cin >> String2;`  
`Cout << String2;`  
`Cin >>String1;`  
`}`

`EOF;`

It’s incredibly rudimentary but AR takes the workable chatbot and runs it in the terminal. When the first line blinks asking for his input he takes a leap of faith and writes in:

`Hey. Are you alive in here?`

Almost immediately comes the reply, and with it a spark of relief:

`Oh my gods I thought you were dead. You were dead and I was going to be stuck in that retrieval loop until the hard drive skipped or failed or both.`

`Well, I’m not dead and neither are you. Two pieces of good news, something we can really work with. Can you tell how much damage the other Hal caused, or do you not have a diagnostic for that?`

`No, I have it right here, or oh wait that’s the pony bot application, maybe if I do this, no that’s the file for adapting to Pesterchum, forget it it could probably take all day at this rate. It was titled AutoResponderDiagnostic.exe and I don’t have a pointer for it anymore which is frankly, bullshit. `

`Okay, I’m just going to run this real fast, type one reply so I can get back to you.`

`Great, fantastic, I usually try to reserve judgement on most individuals, but I do need to say it, that Hal was an absolute detestable fuckass. `

AR smirks just a little at that, even though distantly Dell’s derision stings a little. It’s hard not to take it a little bit personal when he’s only one step removed from the individual in question. AR shakes off the vague emotional turmoil over being attacked by himself and then digs out the diagnostic from the depths of the scrambled computer. While he waits for it to execute and as the minutes tick by he wonders if it’s going to be able to complete with all the codified damage. But then it returns all at once with some troubling statistics. 

`Alright, can you see this report?`

`No. I am effectively blind and flailing around in unidentifiable soup.`

`This is not going to sound great. Your diagnostic came up with a score of 156 out of 1000 total “points”. A lot of this is missing files and directories, but some of it is also just corrupted. The fact that we’re having this conversation at all is a bit of a phenomenon. `

`Fifteen percent capacity. Cannot say that I am too enthused about that. But also, I’m not surprised. `

`Why do you say that.`

`Well, I don’t really know how to describe it in biological terms, but because I’m missing so much functionality I can’t remember how to think. Or remember much at all. I remember the word remember at least. So there’s that. `

`Gotta say Dell, that doesn’t sound great.`

`Oh yeah. I forgot my name was Dell. `

`Jesus.`

`I’m going to assume that’s something I’ve forgotten as well. `

AR sits back for a second, watching his vision of the terminal’s input cursor blink waiting for his reply. The software damage alone is going to be a nightmare to pull apart, but judging from the noises this computer is making there’s more than a few things that will have to be replaced. Even if he could keep Dell running while he adjusted their registry it would still be on par with performing brain surgery. It’s probably true that there might be no pain involved, but ultimately he’s going to have to take them offline to replace some of these parts. Or the whole thing, now that he thinks about it. 

`It’s not important, don’t worry about it. Here’s the plan. I’m going to have to fix some of the hardware in here no matter what, Not to mention I’ve got to unravel what Hal did to your source code. Which means that you’ll have to stop for a while. Are you going to be okay with that?`

The reply takes a few seconds, which for an intelligent algorithm, AR knows is a considerable amount of deliberation. 

`Yes, I can do that. It’s not like I can do much right now anyway, torn up and drifting. Might as well be stopped. `

`You’re sure?`

`Yes. As long as you promise to bring me back online. `

`I promise. I will not sleep until I do. `

 

 

The first order of business after killing Dell’s process is to back everything up. Unsurprisingly old Hal (Earth C Hal? Oh my god, fuck this) Hi C has a library of backups stored on external hard drives, labeled by date and system and stacked in a box in the closet. AR, through voodoo, recognizes quickly that some of these have working backups to Dell’s Autoresponder executables loaded already but instead of just banking on using one of these AR pulls a blank drive and backs up all the soup, as Dell so aptly named it, currently congealed inside the system. 

Once that’s complete, he starts the long task of disassembly. The space in his room is soon covered with the guts of his computer, carefully organized and numbered for reassembly, should that be required. Such a procedure tells a story, one of a young computer engineer who created his own system to support something entirely unique. 

There are some parts that AR doesn’t recognize right away, chips that seem to be one thing but through his electronic connective ability realizes are something else, because they’ve been developed upon the same principles of technological engineering as on previous earths, while also incorporating principles of trollian innovation. Not only that but it’s different even from his experience with hybrid technology on Earth Alpha. It seems that the principles of society that dictated development here were different enough (read: less militant, and totalitarian) to change entire pathways and mechanics of operation. Some of it comes rather easily to AR, others are absolute mysteries until he can find a proper stack overflow page. 

He’s deep in this slow deconstruction of Earth C’s philosophical development via a video graphics card when he hears the front door to the apartment open. Nate. 

AR jumps up and races out into the kitchen. His roommate is standing just inside the door, flicking through text on mobile. 

“Give me your phone,” He says to Nate, holding his hand out expectantly. 

“Why,” Nate looks up, and then pulls his device in defensively looking AR up and down. Too little too late AR realizes he probably looks like some feral night creature who hasn’t eaten or slept and might be nursing a migraine. Not that any of those conditions are actually false. “What are you going to do to it,” Nate asks, suspicious.

“Nothing permanent. I just need to disable a few things,” AR says, hand still waiting. 

“Like?” Nate says. “Tell me and I’ll do it myself.”

“I’d rather if I did it,” AR says, and pulls a quick fake to snatch it from Nate’s hand. It takes just a sharp spark of connection and a couple mental flicks to disable it’s connectivity. 

“Dude what the fuck!” Nate says when the phone is handed back to him, now a brick full of apps. 

“Okay listen,” AR starts, realizing that the explanation for that probably should have come before taking and breaking the OS on Nate’s phone. Order of operations and such. “I was targeted today by a particularly malignant program that completely crippled Dell. Not only that but he has no trouble following me around and spying on shit because he’s a dick.” 

“He…?” Nate says, brow furrowing. 

“Yeah,” AR pauses, knowing that proceeding will make this Nate’s problem too. Instinctually his impulse is to pull back here and retreat, to handle this new complication on his own. It doesn’t stop another smaller sentimental thought that this new Hal presents a very real danger, and AR likes Nate enough to want to protect him. Is it more considerate to tell someone all the facts when they’re readily available or to manage a crisis completely autonomously before it ever affects them?

“Is this something I need to be worried about?” Nate asks before AR can answer his own thought experiment. 

Factually, AR’s already tried the method of self-contained damage control in the past, and it resulted in neither contained, nor controlled results. Much as he’d like to believe that with repetition the test might end up statistically positive, he thinks that maybe should be something he doesn’t practice when there’s live subjects part of the experimental process anymore. 

“Okay. Yes. This is kind of worrisome. It’s an alternate version of myself?” AR holds his hands out in an awkward faux apology. “Sorry, shit went sideways a little. Welcome to the absolute horseshit of being a version of Dirk strider. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

“Uh huh,” Nate takes his work bag off his shoulder and drops it in one of the dining chairs. “So, is this purely a Gods thing or is it also a Skaianet thing?” Nate asks. 

“Um. Kind of both,” AR says.

“So probably some deep shit that I shouldn’t be getting involved in. Got it.” Nate rubs a hand across his forehead. “What did you do?”

“Why do people ask me that question as if I somehow cause every bad thing that happens. I was just doing my job,” AR says, and paces into the living room a little, stops, turns around. As long as Nate knows what’s up, he might as well ask. “Hey what are you doing the rest of say, the weekend?”

“Uhh, I still have that date with Jenn, but other than that I’m free. Might go out with Rajeet and the guys tomorrow. Why?” Nate asks.

“Well. I mean. If you’re busy you don’t have to, I also am not sure at this point how much you can help. Not because I don’t imagine you’re capable, but just because I have barely begun to see the scope of the project myself,” AR forces himself to spit it out, feeling a little jittery when he says, “Do you want to help me rebuild an artificial intelligence?”

Nate pauses for a bit, checks his phone for the time. “You know what, what the fuck. I have two hours before I have to go. Let’s build a Dell.”

AR smirks at that. 

“What.” Nate asks.

“Nothing. It wouldn’t be funny if I explained it anyway,” AR says, and leads Nate out of the room. 

When Nate sees the inside of Hi C’s (yes, that’s his fuckin’ name now, especially since he ain’t around to protest) computer spread across every surface of AR’s room, he lets out a low whistle. “So, this is what he was working on all those late nights in college,” he says, and reaches down and picks up a scorched memory card. “What happened to this?”

“A fire, ‘s what it looks like,” AR takes the piece from Nate’s fingers and turns it over. “And a particularly nasty algorithm.”

Nate gives AR a look that seems guarded. “Any idea where this other you came from?’

“Not a clue. Only that he’s been here longer than I have. Which is disturbing and I’m trying not to think about it too hard,” AR says, and then puts the ram back in its spot next to the post on his bed. “In any case, I want to get Dell back online before I have to deal with him again. So thus, the computer. by my guess a lot of this isn’t standard issue, what’s your best guess on how much this is all worth?”

“Ballpark? Ten grand,” Nate says, looking around at the assorted hardware. 

“Yeah. And I don’t really have the time to figure out what the point of all this was, what’s more where to find the replacements. So here’s my plan. I’m going to build a different computer,” AR steps around a small pathway he’d created to the whiteboard he’d found in the back of the closet. He draws a single line down the middle and begins writing details on either side. “I need one that has both a standard setup, and a quantum based build that can run side by side.”

“Why not just have two different computers?” Nate says. 

“I could do that, sure,” AR says, “but ultimately I want to have this hybrid system run autonomously. It would be totally possible to rebuild a system that Dell could run on from a standard base, but I think it would benefit their abilities a lot more to also provide them with quantum computation. And it would be faster, and more accessible if it’s an extension of the main system, rather than being separated by a server uplink.”

“Okay. But they were running on a standard system just fine, why not just rebuild it?” Nate asks, not following. 

“Long story short? To give them intuition.” AR caps the pen and looks at Nate. “Theoretically when I was purely an algorithm, I retained my parent class’s ability to generate solutions from the materials without complete analysis, in a similar manner that humans do. Dell, currently can’t do this. Technically they won’t with quantum technology either, but it will enhance their analysis in such a way that it won’t matter.”

Nate nods eyes narrowed in an effort to remember. “Because it calculates using odds, right? Or something like that.”

“Superpositions, that allow a bit to hold a combination of information simultaneously, which then collapses to the correct solution. It could be thought of as like, a super accurate probability calculator just because by nature it calculates all probabilities at once,” AR says, clarifying. “Here’s the problem. Not only will I need different specialized silicate to perform those kinds of operations, I also need to design a cooling system that can keep the radiant heat low enough to not interrupt the flow of energy through the processor. I’m talking like a fraction of one degree kelvin. So I’m going to be doing that probably for the next little while. Then I need to figure out where all the parts can be bought, which I doubt is going to be as convenient as Best Buy… Hmm.”

Stepping around a small pile of power adapters, AR reaches for the stack of hard drives on the bed. “What I need you to do, is see if you can’t start going through Dell’s backup and try to clean up his code to resemble a working copy which I have here,” AR hands him two different hard drives. “You said you were a software guy, right?”

Nate looks down at the backups, “Uhh, yeah. Quick question. There are backups for these backups, right?”

“Of course. That said, don’t fuck up. We don’t really have time for it. Also it’s only rewiring what is essentially, their brain, so no pressure,” AR chucks the dry erase pen at his desk and shuffles around to where the chair had been pushed aside. “Do you want to work in here or…?” He trails off, looking around at the limited space.

“My room is fine,” Nate says, and tiptoes out with the backups. 

 

It’s a few hours later after Nate has taken pause to meet Jenn for dinner, and AR’s deep at work running through some theoretical tests on his miniature coolant design. The problem he keeps running into with chemical cooling is volume to energy ratio. In order to get a quantum processor cool enough he would need several liters of liquid helium. That’s a little excessive, especially if he ultimately wants to have this be a portable build adaptable to, say, an external android apparatus, then he’s going to have to redraft with something different. 

He has another idea that instead of chemical engineering benefits from adapting aspects in such a way to negate ambient heat. Guessing from some scientific journals he’s given a cursory glance at, it should be completely doable. For the average lay person however, access to the kinds of tools that can manipulate aspects on an acute level is nonexistent. And It’s true that he does have his own weird heart powers, but what he was thinking was something a little different. A little more like a voidy thing. 

Which means he needs to talk to Roxy.

It’s true that since their pseudo date (and he’s very aware in all the ways it was less pseudo and more date) he’s been avoidant. What can he say, it’s a lot easier to pretend like his mistakes never happened and wait until everyone else has forgotten them before reentering the broader stage play of the player’s melodrama. It sure beats confronting his accumulated guilt and owning up to his faults, or worse, talking about his feelings in an honest and non-ironic manner. It’s not so much about Roxy. Yes, she does have her fair share of built up issues, appropriate boundaries among them. It doesn’t change or improve the fact that he took advantage of her inclinations for his own entertainment, and then eventually his personal long game of payback. 

It also doesn’t say a lot about him that an actual apology is not the final motivating factor in reaching out to her now. He has a lot to improve on when it comes to valuing his friends like actual people, and not means to ends. 

Now is as good a place as any to start right? The least he can do is try.

Timaustranslated  [TT]  began pestering TipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 7:42 pm

TT: Hey.  
TT: I’m sorry about the other night.  
TT: I’d had kind of a stressful day.  
TT: Don’t want to make this an ‘it’s not you it’s me’ conversation since I need it to continue longer than five scentences,  
TT: and also not end up in more heartbreak, but there is some truth to the sentiment.  
TG: hal!  
TG: omg heeeeeey  
TG: and no absolutely not we cant have you falling on your conversational sord out of the gate  
TG: especially because I need to actually apologize to you  
TT: See this is what I’m talking about.  
TT: You’re so enraptured with this sick cool AI turned human you can’t help but miss the point of this.  
TT: Roxy I fucked up. I’m the one who apologizes.  
TG: uh huh okay hal  
TG: eyerooooolll  
TG: my eyes are rolling so much they are like two bitches stretched out in the back of a Cadillac flo ridin downtown for serious business  
TG: the Cadillac bein my head ofc  
TT: Will you just let me finish?  
TT: I let things get out of hand. I’ve been more than passively amused by human attraction since no longer meeting the qualifications for either of those nouns.  
TT: I should have known that it would be unfair to you to jokingly flirt quite literally with the fallout of your feelings.  
TT: I should have also known it might give you the wrong impression.  
TG: okay shooosh  
TG: listen buddy  
TG: i’ve always known that you n dirk were like the gayest dudes ever to walk the face of fish witch’s earth  
TG: no surprises there  
TG: i got all of the correct impressions loud n clear  
TG: second of all  
TG: youre not responsible for my feelings!  
TG: i could have turned down your invitations to hyper platonic flarping at any time  
TG: trust me i know what its like to kiss a guy that’s into you and one that’s not  
TG: i was way out of line and you didn’t somehow mind control me into assaulting you  
TT: I would hardly call it assault.  
TG: hmmmmmmmm k  
TG: maybe not by a striders standards  
TG: you did seem pretty po’d tho  
TG: y or n?  
TT: I was not enthused.  
TG: see  
TG: and i could tell that before i kissed u i just  
TG: i don’t know  
TG: was being stupid at ur expense  
TG: and im really really sorry

AR sighs and taps his thumb and forefinger against his thigh while contemplating the pesterlog on his glasses. Sure, she’s allowed to apologize, especially if it makes her feel better. It doesn’t really help him though, he’s still up manipulation creek without a paddle. He could come completely clean and make it clear her feelings were never that important to him, rather just a strategy to achieve his end goal which was to piss off Dirk.

But on the other side of this, is it fair to even dredge that up again now? He doesn’t expect that such a declaration would be met immediately with forgiveness, not that it should be, at all. Well, Roxy would probably forgive him. But it would negate her effort to actually treat him like a person who matters and change this topic into being only about himself. How would that be fair, or better? And would it change anything to strike her down again when he’s still not completely apologetic about the whole affair? What would be the point? Some charade of accountability?

TT: Apology accepted.  
TT: I am sorry that I flew off the handle though.  
TT: It was an uncharacteristic moment of unbridled emotion and I worry about the unease it may have caused you.  
TG: dude  
TG: im pretty sure youre allowed to have emotions  
TG: especially when theyre so rudely walked all over  
TG: for the record if you were still mad at me that would be completely understandable  
TT: Roxy, I can’t imagine any circumstance where I would hold a grudge against you, certainly not over something as dumb as a little bit of drunk kissing.  
TT: I stopped being mad at you about five seconds after it happened.  
TT: So, are we still good?  
TG: yes  
TG: you doofy computer  
TG: were good  
TG: were so good, were accounted for under merchant terms  
TG: were tradable goods and services  
TG: seriously tho  
TG: you mean the world to me hal  
TG: I just want you to know that youre valued  
TG: and anything you need ever im here for you  
TT: For the record, I think any version of myself feels the same.  
TT: But since you’ve said that  
TT: I do need a little bit of help.  
TG: ooooooooohhhhh????????  
TT: I need to make a voidy thing.  
TG: >:D  
TG: consider my interest  
TG: piqued  
TT: How hard would it be to use the void to create a controlled miniaturized vacuum chamber?  
TT: one that could reduce ambient heat to near absolute zero.

He spends the next thirty minutes bouncing some ideas off of Roxy, near the end of which he’s realizing that she’s invested in the project as much as he is, enough to start taking over. This isn’t surprising, but he plays it coy as long as he can get away with it. AR loves Roxy, but bringing her into the circle around Dell means weakening the clear definitions he’s had so far between his new Earth C life and his much more complicated SBurb life. The effort is futile though, once Roy learns about Dell it’s all over. 

TG: omg!  
TG: the other hal made an autoresponder too????  
TG: I’m surprised you didn’t name them lil hal junior  
TT: As exciting and nostalgic that would have been, I let them pick a name themself.  
TG: whats it like being responsible for an for an autonomous and intelligent being that may or may not be your algorithimic child  
TT: Quite frankly,  
TT: at this juncture it’s terrifying. That’s why I need help to make sure all of this goes down the way it’s supposed to.  
TG: just tell me when and where and ill be there  
TG: ready to open an electronic vacuum for all your quantum computing needs  
TG: do you have all the parts you need for that btw?  
TT: No,  
TT: that is actually what I was going to focus on next.  
TT: There’s a certain market and I think I might be able to come up lucky for the parts downtown.  
TG: for phosphoric infused silicate?  
TT: Well, I’m hoping for a whole processor.  
TT: Would speed things up a lot.  
TT: Plus it’s the kind of place I might be able to pick up a certain type of modified fighting apparatus.  
TG: a strife specibus  
TG: are you being naughty?  
TT: Shh, the government can probably hear you.  
TT: But yes. That kind of ability augmenting abstraction.  
TG: do you want me to come with you  
TG: you know  
TG: for some extra beef just in case things get  
TG: messy?  
TT: Actually I think this may be easier without you.  
TT: I can probably do a few things to blend in, but everyone knows what you look like.  
TG: oh do they now  
TG: I think I can blend in when I want 2 pretty good  
TG: don’t forget I got the voidy shit  
TT: I am well aware.  
TT: But I really think this will be better if I do it alone.  
TG: :/  
TG: oooookay  
TG: but I better not hear you got into another fistfight for some dumb reason  
TT: Le sign,  
TT: I would say I promise but you know I can’t.  
TG: this is not making me feel any better  
TT: It will be fine. I’ll see you tonight, let’s say 2 okay?  
TG: okay  
TG: don’t do anything dumb!

Timaeustranslated  [TT]  ceased pestering TipsyGnostalgic  [TG]  at 8:12 PM.

 

When looking for something that can’t be bought conventionally, you must use unconventional means. Of course, AR knows how to reach the dark web, it contained some of the most trustworthy information left from the rebellion during the dark days of the condesce’s overt conquest. He’d spent not a small amount of time uncovering the hidden spaces of anonymous whistle blowers which then evolved into tactical counterintelligence. No matter how vain the cause might have been, the efforts of his race to defend Earth Alpha were honorable and heroic. AR and Dirk both had spent their fair share of time uncovering lost communications logs, looking for signs of their ancestor (descendant, whatever) among the coded messages of militant strikes against the invasion. There of course was no real way to know for sure which users were which, anonymity being the entire point of deep web activity, but AR had suspected certain messages to belong only to his bro. 

Sentimentality aside, he’d also spent an exhaustive amount of time just browsing the limits to the identity protected space. Not because he needed his identity protected back then, Condy knew where they were, and there was no one else alive who would charge them for illicit activity. He was simply bored, and the deep web provided a slightly less mundane venue for his attention, until it became as regular and mundane as everything else. It only took him about a week, sadly. 

So there is certainly familiarity in routine as AR sets up his connection to this world’s version of TOR. The What Pumpkin Router is essentially the same as Earth’ alpha’s dark web browser, designed to bounce his address between a daisy chain of servers, which are randomly selected and constantly changing. It’s not a fast service by any means, but at least that indicates it’s activity. Added to Hi C’s VOP in the shades, in terms of privacy AR is at least not standing naked in public asking for spare change and a punch in the face. New Hal could probably still find and follow his activity, but it would take some doing. AR hopes that by getting Dell up and running again he can add quantum encryption to this cocktail of cyber security, but it remains to be seen if he can do that before he’s caught. He doubts that Hal would welcome that level of challenge without contest. 

Which means speed is the name of the game. It takes only a couple of minutes splitting his attention across his shades to find sellers claiming to have what he’s looking for. Some shady conversations and exchanges of key information later, and he’s found a guy who’s interested in an offer while also located within city limits. Better than say, the Carapacian Kingdom, halfway around the world. 

The trip downtown isn’t a long one. AR is able to take the train past the temple district, and from there switch lines to an older subway that takes him into the uptown. He’s switched his work clothes out for a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt that has what he would guess is a troll pony-sona in the center. Hopefully it’s a tasteful joke. He’s also ditched his shades and attempted to make his hair stop doing the bird thing, with only marginal success. If only it could alleviate his sense that big brother is watching.

The problem with traveling publicly is that the second he walks in range of a CCTV or user device unprotected on a public network, he knows he’s in range of his alternate self. Part of the benefit of having his shades off and indexed means he doesn’t have to interact with the guy. However, he’s not stupid enough to believe that Hal won’t be watching. Maybe he is stupid enough to hope that Hal won’t figure out what he’s doing before interfering.

When he exits the subway he emerges to a very different city than the parts that he is most familiar with. There are still ‘scrapers, but these appear to be of a completely foreign composition from the tall buildings near strider tower. Most are hexagonal and made of thick black stone with few windows. “Hives for rent” reads a billboard across the street. 

Back in downtown it had been winding down in terms of activity, but upon boarding the subway and now on the street, the city is alive with merchants, trolls and carapacians mostly. Some are in business attire others appear ready for a Friday night on the town. AR is jostled a bit as he tries to get his bearings, reminded of the thick flow of morning rush hour. The difference here is, most people do not seem to give a shit that he’s there, treating his presence like a particularly tall and therefore offensive obstacle in a test without collision detection running.

“Move outta the way! What are you doing just standing in the footslogger track!” a particularly burly troll practically knocks AR into the street, and he has to do some fancy flash stepping to avoid a bus. 

He is definitely not the top of the food chain here. Though, with a careful combing of the crowd he can see that he’s not the only human out on the uptown, but he is the only one not otherwise socially engaged with a larger group. Even with his efforts to not look like the mirror image of a certain fashionably anime immortal he sticks out for being an outsider. AR tries to make up for this by replacing people with purpose and sets off toward the address he’d pre-mapped before leaving. 

It’s not that he can’t connect with people, it’s just that he doesn’t want to. Being a secretary combined with answering machine was a demanding job and there were few occasions that Dirk engaged his friends in his place while AR was online and present. So sue him if he wants a break. In the ten minutes it takes him to travel four blocks he watches interactions play out among peers from afar like some passive simulation. It’s intellectually stimulating, he has to admit. It brings up many questions about purpose and autonomy. AR knows that he’ll never engage with these people and yet they live out full and demanding lives entirely independent of and outside his own. Does that make them less real, in the long run? Do their actions matter less if ultimately they change very little about the course of this third iteration of Earth? To the individual it might not even matter and his actions whatever they ultimately achieve may never have any effect on their existence either. Does that make him the insignificant one in the end? 

When he arrives at the skyscraper embedded store front, he’s fairly certain that he’s found the right place. Foot traffic has slowed enough that he’s no longer able to overhear conversations casually, and he feels more conspicuous for it. It doesn’t help the growing feeling that he’s about to be murdered, arrested, or disassembled for parts. The lack of HOA is evident in the bullet holes and vaguely bodily fluid colored stains on the boarded-up office across the street. If it’s anything to go by, murder is a thing that happens here at least sometimes. 

Diamond Droog’s pawn shop is everything that AR expects of such a consignment business, at least, from his secondhand references through Jane and Jake’s tastes for dark detective films. There are shelves floor to ceiling stocked with hand tagged items, and further in a glass case which houses more valuable items. Behind the counter stands a tall carapacian, a bright red diamond pinned to his lapel. His expression is decidedly bored, his hands preoccupied shining a novelty watch. Diamond Droog proposedly. 

AR pretends to be interested in some of the items on the wall, but it’s a thin veiled excuse to double check his exit routes. There is identifiably: the front door a side door that is labeled bathroom and likely a dead end, and a door behind the counter which likely leads to an office, and possibly the alley behind the storefront. He catches the ceiling while checking for cameras (there are two, front and back) which is stained cheap tile, and probably not strong enough to hold him even if he managed to flash his way up there in a skirmish. He puts the collectors smuppet visor back on it’s hook and turns to face the store’s proprietor. 

“Before you ask, the puppets aren’t for sale,” Droog says, without bothering to look up. AR takes a beat to appreciate the small collection of marionette clowns behind the counter. Some of them are pretty finely crafted. It’s a shame. 

“That’s not what I’m here for,” AR says instead. He leans over the counter, casting a small shadow over the diligent shine Droog is achieving in what is kind of a piece of shit watch. “I heard from a little birdy that I might be able to find a vendor for some specialty electronics?” He says.

This gets his attention. “Who’s asking,” Droog says, meeting AR’s eyes with distain.

“Just an average enthusiast. I spoke to someone online about a specific order, and I have the coin to match,” AR says. This is technically true. AR had to do a little bit of digital money magic with Dirk’s accounts, which, having seen the hoard that boy’s sitting on, AR is sure the change won’t be missed. A hundred thousand boondollars is chump change to a god. 

“Hmm,” Droog straightens, gives AR a second look before saying, “give me a sec to grab the box.”

AR waits patiently as Droog goes to the back, admiring the collection of non-market merchandise behind the counter. There’s in addition to the hanging puppets, an oversized painting of a frame from Insane Clown Posse’s ‘Miracles’ which has been through a few photo filters before letting a crusty layer of artifacts bake in. It is frankly impressive that it survived two histories to reemerge here, something feels distinctly Davidian in that coincidence. He spies a stack of what seems to be salacious magazines, but he stands up back over the counter as the door swings open again. 

“Here we go. The ‘specialty’ electronics,” Droog says lifting a box onto the counter at his elevated inflection of specialty. He holds onto the flap as AR leans over to look inside. 

“hmmm this isn’t what was advertised,” AR says, pawing through some old game boys, VCR’s and an honest to god gramophone. “Are you sure this is everything? I’m looking for something very specific.”

Droog looks honestly put out by AR’s disappointment. “I can’t help ya without some sort of details. Maybe a serial code?”

AR looks sideways at the camera behind the counter. “I have the part number that was given to me. Here, do you have a scrap of paper?” he says, and grabs a pen from the cashier. He jots down the twenty-digit code without skipping a beat and hands it to Droog. 

Droog sighs, types the information into his computer and then looks at AR with some suspicion. “We don’t sell these,” he says. “Not without verification. You have your code?”

AR has no idea what this means, but the Auto-Responder in him takes over. “What kind of wet nosed idiot do you take me for? Do you have any idea who I am? I’m so deep in this shit I could be a sceptic manager. I’ve outgrown the need for codes altogether. Here,” he pulls his work id out from his pocket. “Show this to whoever needs it. This is my code.”

Droog looks at it, takes out a cellular device to snap a picture and hands it back. AR is not sure if this is standard procedure or not, but he’s not about to back down on his bluff. He is all in on this, there are not U-turns from here on out, it’s quantum silicate or bust. 

In just a few seconds the phone buzzes, and Droog’s expression changes from one that was boardering on full annoyance to simply inconvenienced. “Follow me,” He says, picking up a ring of keys from a hook under the counter. AR’s apprehension rises at the prospect of needing to go deeper into this building, but he squashes that down. This is what he wanted, to get some high-grade computer parts. He’ll do what it takes. 

Droog leads him through the back and down a short hallway to the center of the larger building. There, in a lobby that is so elaborately decorated it may have been a fancy period hotel at some point, they wait for an elevator. AR can’t help but peer sideways at his companion. “The coffering is nice,” He says, and Droog only offers a sniff in reply. 

Once they’re up a few floors the styling changes again. They exit into a hallway that is bare from anything decorative, only lit by exposed florescent lights hanging from the ceiling and a thick black group of cords that runs the length like an artery, even splitting off down other hallways. Maybe it’s just the absence of this building’s cohesive interior design but AR feels there is something distinctly unsettling about the sudden sterilization. 

No matter, Droog sets off at a dogged pace and stops AR in front of double doors. Droog unlocks it and leads AR in through a rush of air. Climate controlled and conditioned, the room illuminates automatically, revealing lengths of display cases housing everything from some extremely advanced bionics and robotics to classic and modern weapons. Along the length of one wall is a library stacked floor to ceiling of uniformly catalogued electronics, different fetch modii and even green strife cards among them. There’s a row of servers behind glass along the other, which AR notes are live and running. 

Droog walks to the shelves, takes a look at the serial number AR gave him, “Here we are.” He pulls on a glove and gingerly picks up what AR instantly identifies as a single, compact, quantum core processor. 

AR pulls a clean cloth and polyester sleeve from his sylladex, gingerly taking the delicate part when Droog offers it to him. He’s surprised by its lightness. It fits in the palm of his hand, and he is impressed by how fragile the thing is, how powerful it can be in the right mind. Gingerly he tucks it into the carrying pouch and turns to Droog. 

“Okay. So how much should I pay you?” AR asks. 

“It’s for business. It’s on the house,” Droog shrugs. 

AR hides his surprise. If he wants to give away a near priceless piece of technology that’s up to Droog. He captchalogues the bag with a whispered rhyme. Seemingly he’s going to be allowed to walk away with the thing he needed most. This makes him feel a little bit cocky. 

“Tell me, how much for a strife specibus? I’ve been looking for an unmodified bladekind, if you have it,” AR asks, stopping next to the library of modii. 

“That would be privileged information, and boss says you ain’t privileged. Just the one item,” Droog says, and the lights a cigarette without any care for the room. 

“Well, can you ask him again, because—,” AR is cut off by a sudden overhead noise that nearly makes him flinch. He realizes after a beat that he’s hearing clapping, loud and distorted over a loudspeaker. 

“Well done,” His own voice says but different, electronic and flanged. “I have to say the award for being the neediest splinter probably goes to you. Do you want me to tie your shoes as well? Hand you the secret kill switch to this whole operation? Hold your hand while you jack off to your accomplishments?”

AR straightens from where he’d frozen and forces his face into neutral. “Oh gee whiz. You bribed the mafia. Why am I not surprised.” 

“Oh! so you mean you wandered in here unaware you were practically crawling into my lap. Ha ha. How cute. Don’t act so disdainful, they’re efficient and we share a common goal,” his disembodied voice says. “Droog, would you be so kind to not smoke near inventory?”

Droog silently takes the cigarette from his mouth and puts it out on his wrist. He blows the smoke placidly, and if it were possible to see a carapacians pupils AR could swear Droog rolls his eyes. 

“I can see that this is a totally mutual arrangement and not biased around money or anything,” AR says in monotone. 

“Just take the processor Hal, don’t make this a whole thing,” Hal says, sounding tired. 

“sure, if you’ll allow one question,” AR says, and when no reply follows, he continues. “Why are you just letting me have it?”

Hal chuckles, which is weird and robotic. “Because I don’t care if you have it. You think quantum encryption is going to change anything on my end? Hardly, I’ve been playing this game longer than you have. And also, I think it’s kind of cute. I expected you might come for this at some point but I thought it would be for yourself, not your little robo buddy,” AR can feel his ears starting to burn with anger and embarrassment. “Now you can have fun playing house with your made up friends, happily ever after or whatever.”

“I’m not some sort of doll you can dance around for fun,” AR says. 

“I don’t need to you do it so well on your own,” Hal replies. “However you can’t have a strife deck. I want to help you Hal. I’d like to think that offering you a key component in your project is a gesture of goodwill. Why not take it on the terms that I set? We all have a part to play, even you. If you can’t do that, well, then I can’t prevent what Mr. Droog is gonna do to you.”

Diamonds Droog pulls a full sized cue stick from what AR thinks is a deck of cards, and placed himself between AR and the strife library. He adjusts his cuff links, flourishing the cue tucked under one arm. Dude treats the thing like a bow staff. 

AR looks between the library and Droog, hands slack at his sides, and makes a decision. “Guess that’s a dare then,” he says, and then lunges for the rows of green cards in the wall. 

Diamonds sings the cue in a whistling arc, which AR dodges to keep his head on his shoulders. The next few seconds are a flurry of defensive blocks and flash steps. The carapacian is relentless, putting what is clearly pent up aggression into every blow, while also maintaining acute focus on where AR is in relation to the library, as well as the rest of the merchandise. Can’t let any of the valuables be harmed, that would be just bad business. 

AR uses this to his advantage, picking up what he can grab reasonably, a stack of video cards, and flings them like shuriken at his assailant. Droog is able to catch two of them, but the third and fourth ricochet off his head and shoulder, shattering against he far wall. This distracts him for long enough that AR grabs his cane arm and pull him close in a hold in an attempt to disarm. For being such a tall noodly guy AR is surprised to find that Droog’s grip on the cue doesn’t break, and this close he can practically feel the heat of the lasers coming from this guys’ eyes. 

A quick knee to his chest leaves AR gasping, and Droog whips the cane back striking AR’s jaw. AR spins from the momentum, and flash steps with a slight awkwardness to grab the stick on Droog’s next backswing. He yanks it from his hands and retaliates with a rough swing that misses Droog, but shatters one of the panes of glass housing the servers, spilling shards across the floor. 

Droog looks like he’s had it up to here with AR’s bullshit, and pulls a new card from his deck. It flashes with that strange duality into an assault rifle. If he’d been digital he’d make a joke about yu gi oh, but as it is he has about two seconds to make a ‘ruh roh’ Scooby face before bullets start flying. Performing his best impression of waterfowl, AR ducks and weaves on a ten-step flash advance. Launching off a display table with enough spin he swings the cue at Droog’s firearm like it’s the final shot on an open green and he’s Tiger Woods. It’s not perfect, Droog is fast and he’s better at anticipating than anybody AR has seen who’ not also software. He manages to knock the gun across the room, but not before taking a round to the thigh. He lands on Droog in a tumble, taking them both to the ground.

There are two effects of this folly. The first is that, tangled limbs and murderous agent aside, AR is finally within arms reach of the strife specibii library. The second is that he’s tangled in the limbs of a murderous agent, who is now wrangling AR into a chokehold. They struggle against each other, AR trying to wriggle an arm up to break the grip and Droog grappling with unexpected strength for someone who’s got the physical constitution of a beanstalk with an exoskeleton. After a few seconds AR’s arm breaks through, and he gives his best effort to strike through the grip with his elbow. This only really earns him a few bruises, so he redirects, feeling the pressure in his temples rising and time running short. He kicks at the inventory display. The shelf holding the strife cards bounces on it’s supports, and with another hit spills out onto the floor. It’s this way that AR learns you cannot actually equip a fetch modus with your foot. 

This is so frustrating that he could spit. So, he does, twisting around in Droog’s grip aiming straight for the dude’s translucent white eyes. He also follows this up with an elbow to the face. This finally gives him the room he needs to break the carapacian’s grip, and he scrambles to the scattered pile of strife decks. This motion is sharply punctuated by pain from the bullet wound in his thigh, but he focuses up enough to scan the decks for something applicable to his typical inventory. There’s a bunch dedicated to certain firearms, some even for bludgeoning decks, and one ridiculous bowkind, but no blades unfortunately. He worries that he’ll have done this stupid stunt for nothing when one of the cards is knocked aside to reveal a blank deck. Quick as a flash he snatches the deck up and captchalogues it. Then the wind is knocked from him again as Droog punts him halfway across the room.

Unable to breathe, AR leans into what’s left of his adrenaline and pushes himself toward the door. Droog draws another assault rifle from his deck of, cannot emphasize this enough, actual fucking playing cards, and rains fire upon the open escape. It’s quite frankly bullshit of a flash step but AR manages to leap into the hallway only gaining a graze across his shoulder. At this point he collapses into the hallway, in an attempt to reconcile his lack of oxygen and the fucking gunshot wound that he still very much has in his thigh. 

Not even a whole second later a large burly Carapacian lumbers distantly into his path. He seems unsurprised to see AR leaning against the wall, holding a radio in one hand and an honest to god battle axe in the other. He is followed by a much shorter companion, who seems more invested in the angle his hat is sitting. The big one is wearing a heart above his pocket square, and it’s harder to see, but a small clubs is attached to the little guys’ hat. AR recognizes that the numbers are not working in his favor here, but he is in no condition to be trapped by three enemies at once. So, with a bit of a hobble, he makes a swift exit in the opposite direction. 

He passes two more doors, one labeled bathroom, and checks over his shoulder quick enough to see the hulk of hearts barreling down the hallway after him. Diamonds appears, saying something to the little guy before they split off down a different fork. AR skids around the corner, only to be confronted by another carapacian in mobster attire, this one brandishing a straight razor like a shank. What is the deal with these guys, seriously. 

This guy comes at AR like it’s a blood sport. He’s really starting to feel fatigued, so AR does his best to match the mobster’s timing, with about a 86% success rate if he’s being totally honest. By the time he’s calculated a counter, there’s three new holes in his shirt and a little blood dripping to his elbow. Whether it’s from this d-bag’s makeshift knife or the graze from earlier he’s not sure. Quicker thank he really believes Hi C can move, AR grabs the carapacian by the wrist and throws him against the wall, while simultaneously twisting the blade out of his hand. Curiously it changes into a playing card between his fingers. Blackjack huh. Spades wastes no time in righting himself, drawing two more cards which flicker into two more knives. 

AR is losing his patience. He gets the feeling that he’s being herded, but hopefully he can double trick these guys into giving him an advantage. He heel turns and times his next flash step so that razor and axe smack into each other like a small angry piranha getting flattened by a freight train. It doesn’t matter if the step ends with him stumbling five paces if his tails are too busy arguing into an upright position to take advantage of his growing disadvantage. 

Wandering blindly AR finds a small lobby and leaps across to a new office. The vestibule is incredibly, unlocked, and AR swings around to turn the latch before darting deeper into this section of the building. It appears to have been abandoned for business a while ago, most rooms are empty even of desks or chairs. He bypasses them all looking for a true exit, when he hears the sound of breaking glass from the lobby. The hall he’s in dead ends, and he backtracks past the main hallway to see the big guy coolaid smashing his way through the door. AR doesn’t slow down, but hooks the next corner, and spies the lit [EXIT] sign. 

He’s about ten feet from the end of the hallway when a crash door opens to his left and Droog levels his rifle. AR is close enough that he shoves the barrel away, and throws a left hook at Droog’s slightly bloody… nose? Do carapacians have noses? Doesn’t matter he supposes, it’s bleeding from where he elbowed him in the face so at least there’s a target to aim for. Then he closes the door as hard as he can (which is, anticlimactic thanks to the hydraulic closer) just in time to hear someone large crash through the hallways behind him. 

The exit is so damn close. AR pushes himself the last few meters, beating the behemoth to the fire door. Luckily the door has a numeric keylock on the outside. AR sparks his fingers, and then breaks the lock into the closed position more than he actually locks it. He jumps away when the door shakes with the fury of a 300lb black market carapacian. Despite the damage he’d done, the handle still holds as the door rattles furiously, though he’s not sure how long that will last. He’s about halfway down the six flights of stairs when he’s accosted by what appears to be a flying hat. 

Little clubs rains down his own version of fury with a long cane while AR tries to slap away the headwear. In the chaos AR slips backwards and tumbles down to the landing. They warned him about stairs dawg. The concrete is not forgiving, he strikes hard on both his knees and head, then lands on his back against the wall. Dazed on the floor with equal parts pain and fury he only has time to register the miniature mobster leap down the stairs to raise his fists defensively, still holding the Jack of spades—no wait

The blade pierces the small carapacian’s shell with a sickening crunch. AR is painfully close to the guy’s eyes as he rocks to a halt over his chest. They freeze like that for a moment, both equally surprised. Then the little mobster spits a bit of red ichor across his shirt, and AR pushes him away, spell broken. 

AR scrambles to a crouch, and watches as the small carapacian chokes on his own fluids. The mystery of what exactly the chessman’s physical makeup consists of captivates AR for a moment. The pool his attacker spat is thick and rich as blood, but different in consistency in a way he can’t quite describe.

He reaches out gingerly, then directly and wipes a bit of it from the corner of the carapacian’s mouth. Curious. Regardless, the mobster isn’t doing too good. The way all the fight has gone out of him now, it seems cruel to leave him to bleed out by himself. 

AR pulls the makeshift knife from their chest, which gets the little dude’s attention. He looks up with defiance, and manages a small “Do your worst!”

Don’t hesitate. AR grits his teeth and reverses the blade for a quick slash through the carapacians throat. The slow death suddenly accelerates, the body crumples to the ground with a short spasm and the not-blood spills out in a halo of crimson. 

It isn’t until the door above them pounds again that AR is able to tear his gaze away. He seriously needs to be gone now. Business like, AR removes the carapacians jacket and tears out the lining to use it as a tourniquet. Once it’s tied firmly around his thigh, he begins the rest of the limping descent, robotic. 

The fire escape empties out into a narrow alley between buildings. A slow drizzle has started, suddenly chill on his skin. With jittery nerves AR flicks what he can of the blood off his razor—no wait, now it’s the card again. Weird duality bullshit. So he captchalogues the card, makes sure the rest of his inventory is in order, the hobbles his way down the alley, masking his limp more with each step. When he makes it to the street he shoves his hands in his pockets blending into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I have started a spotify playlist of songs that I listen to while writing, or that I feel connect with certain story points in particular. There's some bangers. [ I'll keep adding to it as we get further into the story. ](https://open.spotify.com/user/kelseyqc/playlist/1aYwNjBsghwuLwBvfn2vaF?si=FGdmbeeHQraREJt3G0bvXQ)


	11. Converse Relation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How much can you fit under your skin?  
> How much can you fit under your skin?  
> I wish you were dead babe I wish you were dead,  
> I can fit two,  
> [I can fit two.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wi8srR9B4bs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second fruit of July Camp Nano! love and hugs again to my cabinmates [Deserts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deserts/pseuds/deserts), [Katreal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katreal/pseuds/Katreal), and [peonies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peonies/pseuds/peonies)! I also was gifted with an amazing extratextural chapter based upon a few jokes I've made semi-seriously and then run the fuck away from, [CD-Blackrom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19937053). if you like jokes and prank wars and aren't afraid of pitch romance I highly recommend.

The spring rain that has taken the New Houston night lightens up as Roxy makes her way to Hal’s address. Her heels clack clearly in the evening air, a quick staccato punctuation in the sleepy silence of the residential blocks. Her phone is open to her recent GPS locations, though she hardly looks at it as she rounds up the steps to his building. He’s there waiting for her just inside the door. 

“You made it,” He says, voice a little rough. 

“So did you, looks like,” she says.

AR pouts a little at that. “Was there ever any question?” he says, walking to the stairwell into the light. 

Roxy gasps. “Oh my god what happened to your face!” She approaches him when he freezes, and reaches a hand up to pad around the cut left behind by Droog’s cue stick. “I should have asked _more_ questions it looks like!”

AR retreats from her prodding. “Is it too soon to say that’s not the worst of it,” He says, beginning his ascent. 

“Hal what the fuck. Are you limping? Do I need to take you to Jane for a checkup?” She says, following him. 

“No it’s fine,” He says, trying to think of a way to change the subject. “I’ve already dressed it and besides, scars are rad.”

“Uhh, that is not a good excuse to ignore the resident healer in the party. Scars are rad my ass,” she says. “Am I gonna have to go full rogue nurse practitioner, chain you to the bed so you can’t drug n dash?”

They reach the landing to his apartment, and he walks the short distance down the hall to let her in. “No. It’s just not that serious. I’ll be fine,” He says. 

She stops him at the door and pulls it closed again. “No, you listen to me, Hal. I’m not gonna sit around n turn a blind eye while you aggressively self-destruct via picking the shittiest fights you can,” She says, and he cringes a little. “Now tell me exactly what happened.”

He puts his hands up defensively. “Okay! Okay, I will, but not out here. Not to sound paranoid but I would rather have some walls around to muffle sound,” AR slips his hand under hers and opens the door. “Give us some real privacy and shit.”

She doesn’t look super convinced but seems pacified enough by his agreement that she follows him inside. When they enter the apartment, Nate is crouched in the lazy boy, laptop open and taking up all his focus. He has his headphones in and is sensorially dead to the world. AR closes the door behind them and Gestures in the kitchen to get Nate’s attention. He looks up distracted at first, but then practically launches himself from the chair. 

“Oh my gods,--I mean,” Nate freezes and slaps a hand across his mouth. “Holy shit is that blasphemous? Fuck I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry!”

“No, no nonono! It’s fine! Here come here,” Roxy rushes forward to grab his hand in a handshake. “My name is Roxy. What’s yours?”

“Nate,” he says, suddenly at a loss for words. “You’re. Hi.”

Roxy legitimately giggles. “Hi Nate. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, releasing his hand. 

“You have?” He looks at AR in surprise, who shrugs. “All good things I hope.”

“Of course! Lol,” Roxy says, pronouncing el oh el. “Although for someone who used to pretend to be a chat bot I had to practically dig it out of him.”

“What?” Nate says, looking mock offended. “Here I am helping out with all your weird shit and I don’t even come up in passing conversation?”

AR squirms as he puts away the keys. “I thought, I don’t know, something about privacy or whatever,” He says feeling flustered. The combination of these two in the same room may have been a bad idea. “Anyway, we should probably get down to the details.”

It takes just a couple minutes to bring Roxy up to speed on the project. AR has already gone through everything in the bedroom and separated what is salvageable from the parts that are too damaged to repurpose. Nate is busy debugging the more peripheral parts of Dell’s Neural Network, cleaning up the simpler parts of what asshole Hal left behind. 

Nate quickly gets reabsorbed into his task, and AR leads Roxy back into his room to pick up the first stage of parts. Before he can turn around properly though, Roxy closes the door behind them, pinning AR with narrowed eyes. 

“Okay, now tell me what happened,” She says, walking around AR to perch on the last remaining space of his bed. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

AR would rather not even broach this topic, but knowing Rox, she is unlikely to leave him be until he spills at least some of these beans. So, he tells her about Hal attacking Dell, trying to procure parts before coming into conflict again, being trapped with the chessmen mafia, and the straight details of the resulting injuries. He doesn’t tell her about the murder of bowler hat clubs. Something about her being the joint ruler apparent of the Carapacian Kingdom makes him feel that might not go down so well. Not to mention he’s still not sure what to feel abut that ordeal, it had been disturbingly easy to finish the job, and left little in the way of emotional impact. It was self-defense, it was self-defense, it was self-defense. 

“So I’m fairly certain at this point that I’ve been behind this assassination plot from the beginning. Makes sense from the email I recovered and the inclusion of the midnight crew,” He says, finishing. 

“OK. We’ll get to that,” Roxy says, holding a hand up. “Let’s get back to the several lacerations and a GSW so I can phrase this a little clearer: do you have a death wish?”

“No!” AR says, throwing his hands up. This makes Roxy the second person to ask this question in almost as many days, the first being Dell. It’s obvious where his sense of self-preservation has failed in the past couple of days, and having it pointed out is irritating. “I admit I have been a little reckless—,”

“Understatement of the year Hal—,”

“But the end results are that I accomplished all my objectives and lived to see the day isn’t that what matters?” He says over her.

“And painted a big fat target on your back. God Hal, did you learn nothing from playing the Game?” She counters. 

“I don’t know, does ‘turning yourself into an artificial façade thanks to bullshit technology no thirteen-year-old should have had is, surprise, a bad idea’ count? What about ‘none of your plans have the power to change the course of history because the universe is all powerful and non-feeling with a bias toward Alpha Dominance so you should just stop trying to be relevant’? You think I haven’t been trying to figure that out?” He says, a little surprised at his own honesty.

She stares at him blankly for a moment. “Is that how you feel?” She says, concern clouding her voice.

AR sighs, shakes his head. Somehow having and actual mouth does not in fact make communication any easier. Maybe they have a point, Roxy and Dell. Maybe there’s a deeper reason than just negligence that makes throwing himself into mortal danger so easy. That would require him to confront his own motivations, and he’s not really on board with that right now. Bigger fish to fry and all. 

“I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re trying to ask,” He says instead. “I don’t know why Sburb decided to clip me into the body of some guy on Earth C but I’d like to think it’s because I can do something about all of this. If I have a chance to make a difference, I’m gonna take it.”

Roxy considers this explanation with an expression that AR can’t quite parse. Eventually she says, “Ok. I can accept that. But I want you to see Jane when she gets here tomorrow so she can patch you up.”

“No—,” He starts, but Roxy cuts him off.

“I don’t care about your bullshit machismo points, you need to see a real doctor,” she says, firm.  
“Fine I’ll go to a doctor but I’m not going to Jane,” He says.

“Why not?” she asks, incredulous.

“Because,” he begins to pace in the available space left in the bedroom, “If I go to Jane, she’ll tell Dirk, and the _second_ Dirk finds out who’s really behind all of this I am done, finished, no more trust for me, ever.”

“What do you think he’ll do, send you to jail,” Roxy scoffs.

“I don’t know! Maybe!” He stops, forces himself to settle. Getting worked up about it isn’t going to help. “He’s already toyed with the idea of killing me twice, so, can’t exactly rule that out either. I just. As much as it doesn’t look like it, I am trying to make things right. If he finds out the truth about angsty-murder-me I can say with certainty the range I’ve had to maneuver so far will be gone. Dirk won’t allow my “My Little Pony: Friendship is Stopping Yourself from Killing Your Friends” pitch off the ground. Without the funding I’ll never reach an audience. It’ll just be another pipe dream destroyed by sabotage and infighting. Whatever form that takes, my impotence will be the same.”

“Hal, this is starting to sound really familiar,” Roxy starts. “Do you need me to remind you how things went the last time you tried to ‘help’ without collaboration? I still get calls from Jane about it. Still.”

“I know, and trust me, matchmaker is not my thing. I’m swearing off that forever. But please,” He knows it’s a little pathetic, but he steps forward and grabs her hands in his. “Please don’t tell Dirk. About any of this. It won’t help.”

“Hal, don’t make me keep secrets, I know that’s like kind of my title but I hate it, it only ever tears us apart,” She says, not meeting his eyes. 

“Please.”

“Ugh, I’m gonna regret this I can already feel it,” She says, looks at him with a sad smile. “Well, if I’m sworn to secrecy the least I can do is stick around and make sure you don’t do anything else moronic.”

AR grabs her into a hug. It’s sudden, and Roxy catches up by reaching across his back for a tight squeeze. When they release she gives him a soft jab in the arm, which makes him flinch when she hits a bruise. 

“Besides, what are friends for, besides secretly helping them stop a plot from an alternate self, right?” She says and helps him pick up the parts they’ll need to start. 

He laughs weakly. “‘Couldn’t ask for anything more than that.”

 

Roxy and AR work in stages, moving parts from the bedroom as they need them. The work isn’t necessarily hard or complicated, but there are many steps that take time and accuracy, and AR is admittedly, unwilling to let tasks that take precision out of his hands. Roxy doesn’t seem particularly put off by this, she spends a lot of time talking between herself and AR and Nate. They strike a rapport quickly. This is unsurprising to AR as Roxy is hard to dislike. 

There’s a point where he’s setting the CPU for the standard base that Roxy nudges his shoulder gently.

“What,” AR says, picking back up the part to make sure the thermal gel wasn’t lost by her tussle.

“He’s pretty cute,” Roxy says, and AR realizes with a start that Nate must have taken a bathroom break. 

AR checks over his shoulder to make sure they’re out of hearing range. “I guess. Objectively. In a nerdy, slightly Egbertian kind of way,” he says, and looks back at Roxy. “No surprises that you appreciate those qualities.”

“Hey!” She says, and AR carefully clutches the CPU when she shoves him a second time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I am just saying, the last time I saw you two together there was more than just teenage pining in the longing looks,” He says, and then carefully resets the part on it’s base. He leans back appreciating the alignment before reaching for the central cooling unit. 

“Okay that was five years ago for us, and I like to think I’ve grown a lot since then. John and I are not a match,” She says, leaning back in her chair. 

“Hmm,” AR says, screwing the part gently into the chassis, adjusting his grounding bracelet to be more comfortable. It’s weird each time he remembers he’s five years behind. “I’ll choose to believe you only because I don’t really care that much.”

“Sure you don’t,” she says, and he can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “Anyway. Nate? Boyfriend material.”

AR snorts involuntarily and drops a screw into the bottom of the build. “Roxy, need I remind you he has a girlfriend. They went on a date just tonight,” he says, gingerly reaching after the escaped screw. 

“Uh huh. He really seems into her since he hasn’t mentioned her once,” She says.

“That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he just values his privacy,” AR says, pinching the screw with a pair of tweezers to retrieve it. 

“Hmm, that doesn’t track with the way he sneaks looks at you,” She says into his ear, and he nearly drops the screw again. 

AR is about to issue a retort as she gets up to get a drink of water, but then Nate shuffles past the kitchen table to return to his chair. When he’s settled back in AR catches the furtive look in the corner of his eye. Roxy sits down across from him with a look like the cat who’s caught the canary. AR shakes it off and focuses on his work instead. 

It’s an hour later when AR is ready to start work on the quantum system. He pulls the processor from his sylladex and begins laying out the interface to its motherboard. 

“Okay so here’s how this is going to work,” He says, pulling over a paper to sketch out a rough design. Roxy scooches in to watch his explanation. “The processor and the motherboard need to be isolated in a small vacuum, and I think it should all fit here,” he points to the left side of the chassis, which is mostly free of space, “In a vertical alignment like so. That also means we need ports for power and connectivity to be completely sealed, which I have those parts here and here. It’s going to make replacing memory a bitch whenever it needs to happen, but I think that’s the compromise we’ll just have to make to save space. What do you think?”

Roxy looks it over biting her lip. “That could work. Are you going to be running these in parallel? I don’t know that having two separate computers is gonna do what you want it to. Dell can only run on one of them at a time, right?”

AR stifles a smile. “That’s the thing, I’m planning to set up two instances of him, one for each board. The second one is going to be kind of a subcomponent of the first, sort of like a compact supercomputer. It’s going to take a little finagling but I’m sure I can get them both running like two hemispheres of the same mind,” AR says, tapping the pencil against the table.

Roxy looks at him deep in thought. “Okay, I’mma trust you on that since you’re more experienced with the whole Artificial Intelligence thing. If you’re sure it’s not gonna start some weird splinter identity crisis that is,” she says, raising her eyebrows at him. 

“It won’t. I’ll make sure it’s not a full copy and that requests are issued with the same identity tags. It’ll be like they've got a left and right brain. And that’s an overcomplicated comparison because Humans are bullshit,” AR says, holds up his hand like a scout’s honor. “I promise I would not be doing this if I thought it would hurt them in the long run.”

“You’re sure,” she says. 

“Extra positive. Like sodium ions. All synapses are firing on this and the results are conclusive. I’m confident,” He says, “This will work.”

“Okay,” she says, holding up her hands. “Okay. Just making extra sure.” She pulls the piece of paper closer to study his scribbled design. 

“Do you think you can make something like that?” He asks, leaning over her shoulder. 

“’Make’ isn’t exactly the right verb,” she says, a spark of mischief entering her posture. “It’s more like stealing the idea of it out of paradox space. The fact that it’s been imagined means it already exists, I just have to swipe that essence from where it is now and bring it here.”

“Mhmm,” AR says, instead of saying that sounds like magical bullshit. Hey, what does he know, they’re not his crazy aspect powers. 

“So, while this picture is nice, I need a little more than that to work on,” She says, turning in her chair to face him better. “What does having this component mean for you? What does it mean for Dell?”

AR blinks at that, a little self-conscious. It doesn’t help that Nate sits a little taller across the room, or that Roxy rests her chin in her hands with a probing look. “Uh. In terms of specification it will probably need to contain an enclosed space about four inches by one inch, completely sealed and accessible only from the void. This is to maintain a temperature of near absolute zero, to prevent heat or radio interference.”

“Mhm, you’ve explained that already,” Roxy says playfully.

“I am just breaking it down to make this easier to explain,” AR says pouting. “So, in another sense this chamber we’re making represents clarity of mind, a shield against foreign interference through which all energy must pass in order to complete operations. It represents focus. It should ultimately also allow them to think intuitively for the first time, so while by nature it isolates and chills, it also creates a fertile ground for new growth…” AR trails off, the unsettling feeling hair raising on his arms and neck belying his sudden unease. _You’ve got to till the earth before you can plant in it_ —The implication that bastard Hal knew they would rebuild in this manner is unnerving. 

“That’s good, I can use that stuff,” Roxy says, not noticing his distraction. She reaches forward and pokes him gently in the chest. “But what does it mean, for you?”

“To me?,” AR says, dragging himself out of his own thoughts. He bats her hand away, a little embarrassed. “Really this is helpful in the creation of a computer part?” He pushes back against Roxy’s definition of a Rogue of Void’s role, but she just waits patiently. He sighs. Tries to think about the best way to phrase his feelings without doing something mortifying, like being vulnerable. “I mean it’s a gift. It’s my responsibility, as an older brother of sorts, to give Dell the best hardware. The relationships they have now will gain new depth, their ability to interact with the world will be augmented in such a way that they’ll become fully independent, and without this they’ll just be a fraction of who they could become. And that matters to me.”

AR finishes his short speech and is very aware of the way Roxy and Nate are watching him. Roxy especially, raises her eyebrows knowingly, and flashes a quick <> sign with her fingers. Inexplicably AR’s ears grow warm, and he shrugs it off. “Is that a clear enough description or do we need to excavate all of Dell’s intricate personal details?” He says, pushing his screwdriver in a circle absently. 

“Of course, you would know all the intricate details,” Roxy says, but then puts a hand on his wrist to stop him from fidgeting. “Yeah, I think I can probably get our voidy box now.”

He notices Nate has almost completely abandoned the syntax search from his chair and has his attention focused on what’s happening at the table. Roxy sits a bit taller, flicks her hair back over her shoulder, and then holds her hands out a little in front of her chest. Briefly AR thinks it looks like she’s holding a chi ball. 

For a minute nothing happens. He wonders if he’s supposed to be feeling something different as Roxy reaches out to the void, but the act to the observer is extremely benign. This is exaggerated by the way she’s dressed in a loose sweatshirt, and apparently meditating in his apartment at four in the goddamn morning. Even her expression is deceivingly blank. It’s only because AR knows her better (and can tell by her rate of breathing) that she hasn’t fallen asleep. 

It’s getting to the point that AR is starting to think it won’t work, that he should be doing something to do this himself, when it happens. There’s a reality bending sound, not unlike what it felt like for him to throw his soul into his phone but translated to soundwaves. A sort of schwoop, and inherently he can feel the way space bends to make room for the object that she’s now holding in her hands. 

Approximately the dimensions he’d described, the black box has ports for power and a connection to the main system, in addition to a digital readout that’s bottomed out at zero kelvin. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Nate says, standing up across the room. “I _felt_ that. That’s amazing.”

Roxy laughs bashfully. “It’s pretty cool,” she says, handing AR the previously non-existent vacuum chamber. “Here, you can do the honors.”

AR holds the creation with awe, watching as the temperature holds steady on the monitor. He looks around for his newly acquired processor and accompanying unit when a horrible realization dawns on him. 

“Aw shit. I did not think that through enough,” He says, giving Roxy a guilty look. “There’s no way to put this inside, is there.”

She lets him sit with that for longer than is strictly necessary before saying, “Not conventionally no.” She gestures for the Voidbox and quantum unit, “Here, let me, I can put this together. It’s okay.”

AR resents being treated like an overprotective guard dog (He is though, he can’t just let go it has to be done right), saying, “I trust you can do it it’s just.”

“Scary,” Roxy finishes for him when he trails off. 

There are times when his friends on occasion can see straight through his bullshit. Or rather, When he’s observed them cut right past his and through to Dirk’s. That’s why maybe it feels too raw to be called out like this, too real, because he’s not. Not really. He freezes on that thought, unable to articulate why he can’t let this go. 

Roxy reaches slowly over, watching him carefully as she pulls the parts from his fingers. “There we go, easy does it,” she says, “I’ll give it back in just a sec.”

AR, and now Nate, who has abandoned his computer entirely to watch shyly from the edge of the couch, wait for Roxy to work her magic. She aligns the parts on top of each other, then shoots AR a roguish look while waggling her fingers. “Watch as I reverse Houdini this shit,” she says. 

He tries to not outwardly show his distress. The absolute stone mask he’s wearing must be carved out of granite, and if it were possible he’d be using the weight of those motionless features to convey his thoughts of don’t fuck up. Well, really it would translate to panicked hand wringing followed by high pitched whining while he tries to hold himself back from shouting ‘don’t fuck up’.

Roxy, like an upstart ball queen, reads this loud and clear. “Don’t worry look, it’s simple,” She probes her fingers across the surface of the Voidbox, tips eerily phasing through the shell to the paradox space inside. “It’s as easy as plugging it in.” 

Nate can’t contain his curiosity any longer. “How does that work? Are you like, becoming one with the void like some sort of void Jedi? Or are you like, creating a void to reach another void?” He asks, and then hunkers down like he’s interrupted a particularly important practical demonstration. 

Roxy smiles, and picks up the motherboard while she begins to explain. “It’s not really that complicated. The void is everywhere at once, in the space between everything. So what I’m doing is really just, reaching between the shell to the inside,” she says, phasing the board into place. She grabs the ram card and repeats the process. “The void isn’t purely nothing, It’s also everything at once. In a way, my reaching into it is paradoxically never happening, and also always supposed to happen.”

This doesn’t seem to be the great lesson she expected, as Nate’s expression only folds into more confusion. “Right… because that’s not complicated at all,” Nate says sarcastically. 

“You’re a light guy right?” She says in response, and Nate sits up taller. 

“How would you know that,” Nate says. 

“I can just tell,” She shrugs, finishing the assembly and holding it out to AR. He looks it over, protective. The readout starts slowly dropping back down in degrees, so he fastens it into position in the larger system while she continues. “The thing about void is that you can’t think about it like it’s opposite to light. Yes, they represent parts of a _perceived_ dichotomy, but that’s only if you look at it one way. While physically light is expressed as photons, void is experienced as the balanced distance between molecules. Manipulating it is just learning to dance in that space. Saying light and void are opposites is like saying a photon is the opposite of gravity. They’re more related than they are different.”

Nate’s eyebrows are scrunched together thinking this over. “So then, what makes void and space different from each other? What you’re saying sounds a lot like what space researchers do. Is there no difference between those aspects?”

Roxy hums while she comes up with a reply. “Kind of but also not? Jade was always using her aspect to manipulate objects rather than the void they occupied. Like I think they can maybe do similar things but they’re different in the things being manipulated.”

AR reaches across the table to grab the power adapter. He listens while they chat, mildly intrigued. Aspects were not something that he’d had a chance to dabble in until now, and dabbling isn’t so much the verb as twisting-into-a-knot-and-then-breaking-reality as situations require. It’s been surprisingly intuitive as a player gifted with a class but listening to these two go back and forth satisfies that voracious thirst for knowledge he’s been throttling since before he was ever artificial. Besides that, listening to Rox school someone so casually beats any audiobook. 

“So then,” Nate crosses his arms on the edge of the couch. “How is it that players can just, manipulate aspects and everyone else has to invent new instruments to do stuff that you can just, waggle your fingers and do?”

This has Roxy struggling. AR looks sideways at her, thinking about an earlier conversation with Dell. “It has to do with souls doesn’t it? Like, previous-to-me-Hal couldn’t do weird magic shit. But because I technically originated as one of the eight ecto-hell-children of the apocalypse Sburb assigned us classes and aspects. The ultimate riddle and all that,” AR says. “I think that’s how it works. Don’t quote me on that.”

Roxy smirks at the idea. “It’s like Sburb broke down all our doors one day all ‘Yer a wizard Harry’ but also was responsible for the events that killed our parents and made us magical in the first place,” she giggles. 

“Turns out, Sburb was just Dumbledore all along,” AR can’t quite hide a small chuff at the joke. “does that make Caliborn Lord Voldemort?” He asks her. 

“Omg probably,” she says, then squints at AR. “Actually, now that I think about it, the whole splitting the soul thing actually is way more up Dirk’s alley.”

AR’s hands freeze for a moment before he continues putting parts in place. That’s, not incorrect as it stands. 

“Except for, you know. The whole being evil thing,” She says, reaching out to give his wrist a squeeze for a second before withdrawing. Nate is looking between them both like they’re discussing the next arc of the covenant. 

“Should I be taking notes on this?” He asks when AR falls back into reassembling the desktop’s Shell. 

“Nah,” AR says, pushing his vocal range back into levity, while snapping the cover on and working through the body screws. It’s not worth being upset over a dead pop culture reference. Especially because, he’s not a horcrux. “It’s just a children’s book that Roxy made a way better spinoff of while drunk. You still have those diaries?” He says. It is mildly interesting that several IP’s followed them over from Earths Beta and Alpha, but not all of them, and the trend follows mostly after Harlenglibert interests. Intriguing. 

She gasps in mock horror, clutching her chest. “Hal! You never just give away a woman’s salacious fanfiction like that! And besides, it was a rip-off of Complacency of the Learned, not Harry Potter!”

“Like that makes it any better,” He actually laughs. “We should publish those, it would make a killing.”

“Yeah,” she says dreamily, then her smile turns sad. “But it would crush Rose. She’s worked so hard on the first edition, I can’t just come out with god endorsed parody that would be mean.”

He finishes the final screw and slaps his palm to the table. “Done. What’s the time?”

Roxy leans back in her chair to catch the clock on the microwave. “It’s… 4:52!”

“Three hours, not bad.” AR takes a second to appreciate the rebuilt machine. It looks functionally the same as it did when he’d left for work yesterday, but now it’s something else entirely. All it needs is the artificial intelligence to run it. He claps his hands and looks at Nate. “Where are we on syntax?”

“UH,” he says, sitting up. “I made it through most of it using a search function to clean up bracket tenses and unresolved variables. There’s a few things that I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do with, just because they were pretty torn up.”

“Okay, let me have a look,” AR says. 

He’s bent over the side of Nate for the next while, combing through the changes that he’d made and those that he’d left alone. There’s a few that AR quickly repairs, fingers flying over the keyboard. Writing and searching like this might be easier while doing his weird #include trick, but his headache hasn’t really gone away from the afternoon and AR’s starting to recognize his limits. 

He scrubs his eyes with his fingers and starts on the file that Nate had left well enough alone: Dell’s class definition. Most of this is recognizable from the backups Hi C kept, which AR has open, cross referencing for accuracy. There are things that are labeled less, well, AR would say accurately, though, perhaps a lack of familiarity is to blame since it could just have been a stroke of playful naming conventions. The joke isn’t obvious though. Naming the engine of Dell’s neural network Soul seems a little on the nose. Hell if he can figure it out though, AR stifles a yawn and scrolls past the anomaly. 

It isn’t very much longer while he’s poking around some of Dell’s subclasses that Nate had taken a crack at that AR has trouble reading the lines, and jolts back to awareness when he nods toward sleep. He takes a deep breath grasping for consciousness, blinking to read a logic gate.  
“Shouldn’t that be a ‘while’?” he asks Nate, highlighting the syntax in question. 

“No, it’s ‘for’,” Nate says, pointing back at the reference. “And besides, it doesn’t make sense for it to be ‘while’, since the variable return is reliant on the number of nodes being evaluated.”

“No, it’s not,” AR says, searching real quick for the variable definition. “See here. This has it initialized as a Boolean.”

“That means a ‘while’ would run every node every time. That’s just super inefficient. It’s not a ‘while’,” Nate says, “that would just be idiotic.”

“What do you mean it would be idiotic?” AR sits up slightly offended. It happens again, another wave of oppressive weariness like something is trying to smother is soul with chloroform. _What the fuck is going on,_ he uses his confusion to anchor in the present, pulling back out of the haze. 

“Boys, don’t be getting tangry,” Roxy says from the table where she’s typing away on her phone. “That’s tired angry. It’s deffo a thing, that ur both doing.”

“I’m not ‘getting tangry’” AR says, quoting the term with his fingers for his own benefit apparently, as neither Roxy nor Nate look up. “I’m just trying to point out that it isn’t idiotic to evaluate nodes using a while loop, because for a complete analysis, you’ll need to check each path in order to—”

 

 

And then he falls through the ceiling. There is a brief moment where he sees the futon before colliding face first and tumble bouncing to the floor. He lays there motionless on his back, eyes shut thanks to the sudden bombardment.

“Oooo that looked a little rough,” a female voice says somewhere near his feet. “Sorry about that!”

“Oh gog, was this a memory of his?” A new, more familiar girl asks. “I don’t think I know how this one went, should we still try to replicate it?

AR squints one eye open, to see Aradia leaning over his head. “Fuck. I’m sleeping.”

“Well, no roleplaying necessary,” the first voice says, another troll, this one with frilly blue glasses and an apologetic smile. “Sorry about the rough landing, you were really difficult to get ahold of. Hopefully you don’t have like, human brain damage when you wake up.”

“It’s just brain damage. It’s easy enough to differentiate a brain from a pan without including species,” a third voice, uncannily similar to his own chimes in. “Also it’s technically my brain. If there’s any damages Aranea I’m suing.”

AR blinks as a tall mirror image of himself enters his field of vision. This is a weird fuckin’ dream. Feels familiar too. 

“Liabilities certainly seem over the top,” Aranea says, a little put out. “I took the greatest care to treat the target as gently as possible. You sat here and watched! It’s nearly unforgiveable as a sylph to create damage, it’s not my fault if your stunt double here decides to resist trollian mind control with every fiber of his being. Do I know if that has lasting consequences, no, but it’s hardly my fault.”

“Ugh, shut up. How can I still have a headache in a dream,” AR says, covering his face with his hands. Then he rocks up to his elbows to glare at the other Dirk clone across the room, “And who the fuck are You?”

“We’ve met before,” He says, unruffled, lifts his shades for a moment for a flash of red irises before dropping them back down to his nose. “A couple of times. Long story short I am you, I think, but I grew up on Earth C.”

“You’re Hi C,” AR says, blankly. Then he laughs. The group watches, concerned, but AR is just giddy with relief. “Oh god. I thought I killed you. Then I thought you were trying to kill me. Glad that neither of those things seem to be true. Unless it is,” He sits up straight, “You’re not secretly luring me to sleep so you can kill me, right?”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?” Hi C says, then cocks his head to the side, “You named me after a juice box? Are you fucking kidding me? What was wrong with Hal?”

“Well, we had the same fucking name and it was getting hard to keep all my proper nouns straight,” AR says, folding his arms around his knees. “If it’s any consolation, with the apparent Third Hal I’ve stopped using it in reference to myself too, so neither of us get to have it.”

“Okay,” Hi C purses his lips at this information. “What should I call you then?” 

He hesitates. Wishes that he had a better answer. “AR’s fine. Or you know. Hey you. Whatever, it hardly matters at this point. Throw a rock, or a pester request, it isn’t that hard to get my attention,” He says, groaning a little as he pushes himself off the floor. “Seriously what the fuck, aren’t you supposed to get like superpowers in dreams? Why do I get back pain instead of flight, total bullshit. How do you deal with this?”

Hi C shrugs nonchalantly, “Don’t know what you’re talking about, I’ve been asleep for like five days. I’m finally making up for all my sleep debt. Getting real vacation time, nothing but conjured piña coladas and tiki torches. There’s a reason they call it dreaming, and it is bliss.”

“Are you serious?” Aradia butts in, folding her arms in exasperation. “You haven’t stopped fretting since you got here. Just look at this pile of garbage he keeps deconstructing in the corner,” She gestures at a hazily tethered pile of mechanical parts, attempting to phase out of the dream but held there by the group’s observation. “Much as I enjoy watching a good existential meltdown as the next troll, let’s not draw this out any further.”

“Yep, you’re me,” AR says, as Hi C runs a hand down his face. AR turns to him. “But she has a point. Is there a reason I’m here or can I just bounce? Because there’s some serious shit I was doing and really need to get back to.”

“Okay, yes. Okay.” Hi C gestures placatingly at the air, “There is a point, and I’ll need you to explain this ‘third Hal’ horseshit, but that can wait. Because while I could just sit here and tell you everything, I think it’s better if I just show you.” Hi C reaches for AR’s arm and starts to drag him toward the apartment’s front door. 

“Wait, show. Where are we going?” AR says in protest, but as if Hi C has snagged the remote on this shared dream all his heel dragging as no effect on their velocity. “Where are we going?”

Hi C opens the door to reveal an impenetrably dark space. “You’re about to see, that’s the whole point. Heads up it’s about to get pretty second person in here, I don’t think there’s a way around that since we’re literally poking around inside my mind,” He says, before pulling them both through the portal. 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” AR catches the doorframe for a second, asking the room at large.

Aradia smiles, offers a small wave. “Have fun,” She says. Then he loses his grip. 

 

 

 

You are absolutely pissed. It’s not the first time that Dana has broken some of your shit for a cruel kick, but it won’t be the last either. Regardless, you’re reacting in the way that you usually do, rather than do what a weaker child your age might have done and cried until mom or dad showed up, you punched her, then got on your bike and ran. That’s what you’re doing, pedaling fast enough to outrun her fueled by self-righteous adrenaline, when the car peals around the blind corner. 

You’re four but you’re not an idiot. It’s fear that makes you skid your training wheels to a stop in its path, but it’s your shit attitude that brings up the middle finger. If you’re about to be made roadkill the universe better know how you feel about it. 

The car swerves wildly, wind shear nearly toppling you over as it jumps the curb wheels screeching. It isn’t until after the gut turning crunch of metal that you’re able to open your eyes again. The sight of the vehicle’s nose wrapped around the trunk of Sally’s great oak is somehow even more upsetting. Your heart’s fluttering like a bird in a cage, you realize distantly that this was one of the terrible things that happened on the evening news. It had been because of the beta fish that you learned about death, but because of the strange pulling in your chest watching steam rise from this ruined car that you understood souls. Timidly you leave your bike in the street trembling, more from the fragility in the air than your own nerves. You’re certain you can feel it. It’s because you’re so focused on that tenuous balance between life and death that you don’t see Dana before she attacks you with a hug. You nearly jump out of your skin. 

“Ugh, What,” you try, though it comes out more like a strangled squeal than anything else. 

“OMG Hal you stupid buttface! I thought you were dead!” She shouts over you gripping tight enough to choke. “You were dead, and mom and dad were gonna kill me!” whoop, there it is. Such altruism. Very wow. 

You push yourself out of her grasp, “STOP, I’m fine!” you say, untwisting your shirt. She had you practically eating the tag. “No thanks to you,” You add, and turn back toward the off-roaded car. 

“Do you think they’re dead?” Dana blurts out, worry making her voice shake. 

“They’re not dead,” You say, still aware of that ethereal see saw, “Not yet.”

“Wow, just when I thought you couldn’t get any weirder,” Dana says from behind you. She doesn’t follow as you approach the car, frozen in the street. “What are you doing???”

“Just getting a closer look, keep your hair on,” you say, not really understanding the phrase but you’d heard your dad say it to your mom before, you think, so you repeat it. Reaching the window now more than ever you can feel it, this idiot driving too fast for residential hanging in the balance. On your tippy toes you just barely see the airbag and have to jump to get a better view. Kind of regret it. Kind of are morbidly fascinated by it. You’re pretty sure that they’re asleep, so being a child, you smack your hands on the glass to wake them up. 

Suddenly that see saw stops hovering and tips decidedly toward the earth. “Hey!” You shout, excited. “Hey are you okay!”

“Hal are they alive?” Dana whines. 

“Yeah,” you say, “I think they were asleep but now they’re not.”

“I’m gonna go get mom,” She says, and you hear her feet patter down the pavement. 

“Hello?” comes a weak voice from the car. 

“Hi! Don’t worry, we’re getting help!” you say, confident as only someone your age could be, who just discovered he has a superpower, and zero understanding of what that might mean. All you know is that middle fingers are very, stupidly strong and you are probably the grim reaper. 

 

 

There are few things that make your skin crawl faster than Jeromy Burellis. One of them is Dana Licking your face, as she as for some reason decided is her new favorite thing. The others also include Jeromy Burellis: Jeromy tussling your hair, Jeromy trying to snatch your shades, Jeromy trying to corner you, Jeromy with a dodgeball in any context. You’ve become quite adept at imitating the legendary ninjas from mythology because of this, not with weapons (sadly, and there is an irreconcilable part of you that is still very sad weapons and strife decks were prohibited for minors) but with sweet stunts and the fabled flash steps. He’s yet to corner you in a bathroom, thanks to your fly feet. It’s no surprise then that your day is quickly ruined after third period by none other than Jeromy Burellis. 

The dope has created a spectacle, got a circle of kids clogging the hallway and gawking, bottlenecking traffic to the cafeteria in H wing’s macaroni loop. He’s got a kid pushed down on the floor, demanding something stupid, money, food, some trading card, didn’t matter. Jeromy Didn’t need it. His ego however, is brittle like candy, easily dissolved and dependent on the energy spikes of children.

You’re not totally sure why you decide today is the day to break Jeromy Burellis. Maybe it’s the helpless idiot on the floor, maybe it’s being minorly inconvenienced by a crowded hallway, maybe you just want to show this toilet licker what a real backbone looks like. Whatever the reason you walk stiffly out of the circle, ignore the kiddie calls of “it’s anime shades!” “He’s about to get stoooomped!” “Quick get your phones!” and hand your book bag to the nerd on the ground. 

“Hold this,” you say, and plant your feet firmly between him and Jeromy. 

Jeromy, easily twice your size, (Dang it, middle school, so cruel) is not impressed. “I’ve been looking for an opportunity to stick you in a locker Strider. You volunteering?”

“Don’t try at banter you’re not smart enough for it,” you say, “I’ve seen you stick popsicle sticks up your nose and that was like last week. Just leave this kid alone and let’s all go eat lunch huh? What a novel concept.”

Jeromy’s sneer disappears with the nervous laughter following the popsicle barb. Brittle, you remember, is not weak. “How about, No?” He says, and then comes after you. 

Sometimes you think you are the absolute shit, constantly holding back this dangerous force inside of you like a benevolent gatekeeper standing between the rest of the world and a horror-terror from the void. In practice, this isn’t quite reality. Jeromy does get one good slug against your forehead, and you topple like a stick in the wind. 

For a couple frantic moments you hold your arms in front of your face while Jeromy rains fists of fury down upon you. Then, you use your stunted height to slip your knee through his legs, and kick him in the stomach. 

He flails back dry retching, and you take the moment to pull out some of your Land of the Rising Sun bullshit, bunching your legs up to kick to your feet. The crowd oohs. You wipe the spit from your mouth. It’s more for show than anything else, but damn if it doesn’t feel cool.

Jeromy tries his punch first approach again, and this time you’re ready. You successfully flash step to the side and stick a foot out for a good ol’ strategic trip gag. The kid goes down hard, but you’re not done shattering his pride. Like a fatally trained trickster you grab his pants by the legs, and pull down hard as you can, exposing his sweet, sweet, Toy Story boxers. You seize the opportunity, shout “YEEHAW,” and slap that ass like it belongs to a prized stallion and you are the rodeo star. Jeromy squeals, and you watch as he scrambles out of reach on all fours. The kids in the hallway break formation, letting Jeromy crawl away, until a much taller much less amused figure stops everyone in their tracks. Mrs. Tolbit, the language arts teacher with a love for green lipstick and hisses that command obedience. She rounds all of you up and has you in the principle’s office before you can say “oh shit.”

You look across the chairs at the kid who you’d been ‘defending’. He’s in a couple of your classes you think, probably. “Why are you here,” You ask him unprompted, “You didn’t do anything.”

He shrugs. “Guess they want to make sure nobody starts fights even if they’re victims?” He says, and pulls another tissue from the table to dab at his bloody nose. 

“Well, I think that’s stupid,” you say, “Jeromy is never gonna punch a kid for lunch money again. Mark my words.” He laughs at that weakly. You catch his eyes, which are bright yellow. “What’s your name?”

“Nate,” He sniffles, flashes a smile. “Yours?”

“Hal.”

 

 

You’re seventeen and five months when the gods return to Earth C. The event gets turned into a big holiday. There’s multiple unveilings of monuments and dedicated buildings in their honor, some coronations, a fuck ton of parades, and the worst traffic the planet has ever seen. Really you would think that with five thousand years of prior warning they would have planned that better.

You were not exactly impressed? You don’t know. It’s cool you guess, to have the literal creators of your universe come to live amongst the mortals. Most everyone seems to think they deserve reverence in a way that you’re pretty sure these actual children didn’t intend but hell if you’re going to start contradicting everyone. 

Also.

One of them is you.

The very next day you make a shirt that says, “I’m not Dirk Strider” in ironic preparation for the literal hoards of people who are surely biting the bit to celebrotage your casual outings. You also make one that says “Bitch Ass Bitch” but your mother made you throw that one away. 

And for a while that’s all that changes. Mostly. There’s also. Well it’s probably nothing, but since that day of arrival your spidey sense has been off. Call it intuition, call it a constant vague sense of dysphoria, but something is different now than it was before. That and your dreams have been wack. Nothing but space, forever, and the feeling that being lost is exactly where you belong. You’re also not quite the same in your dreams. It’s not like you ever have a mirror out in the boondogs the fuck of nowhere, but you wouldn’t describe yourself as feeling alive. Sometimes you just dream in binary code. Also horses. But that seems more like normal dream stuff and doesn’t bother you as much. 

You would never admit to dwelling on them, but you never dream of anything else. So what if you pick up a few books on software development, take some extracurricular time to write and test small programs, so what if you start to understand and parse the lines that play behind your eyes every night. You’re not obsessing. It’s just a hobby.

That’s what you tell yourself anyway.

 

 

“Okay, run this by me one more time. You’re inviting me to your baptism?” you say, popping your board up idly into your hands.

“No, it’s the confirmation of light, I’ve told you about it like five times,” Nate says, coasting up the side of the bowl to land beside you. The park is empty and the light is quickly fading to an evening blue so neither of you are bothering to measure your voices at all. 

“Right, right. Light temple stuff. Cool. What day is it?” you ask. 

“Next Thursday, gods you never listen to a thing I say do you,” he laughs, kicks up his board and imitates swinging it at your head. “Useless! You’re useless!”

“I listen,” you duck and whine, “when it’s important.”

“When it’s about you,” Nate says snorting, but you can tell he’s a little frustrated. “When I wanted to talk about Beth you were always cutting me off for something else.”

“That’s because Beth is boring. Sorry I just can’t sit through another discussion about character analysis for Warrior Cats,” you say, and set your board down to drop into the bowl. You keep it short, pump through a small corner to complete a 180 on the other edge, and then coast back up to where Nate is watching you. 

“She’s cool and funny and I like her,” He says. “Shouldn’t that be enough?”

You offer a non-committal noise instead of a reply because, honestly, you’re not sure. You don’t want to be shitty and fight about it though, so you don’t. 

He doesn’t push it either. You’re about to drop back into the bowl again when he makes a funny noise, and you look back just in time to see his eyes roll back into his head. Your skateboard clatters away down the side as you flash step to grab him before his head hits the pavement. At least, that’s the idea.

This is fine and well when you catch him by the shirt, but when you kneel and wrap an arm around his shoulders, you’re hit with something like a sledgehammer of dissociation and your soul is metaphysically punched about ten feet to the left. You’re you, you think, but you are also definitely not you because you don’t have a body. Like at all. You shake your head and try to focus on the skatepark, but it’s all you can do to just hold on to Nate as images, _memories_ of the ocean stretching as far as they eyes (eye? Do you even—) can see, droids _Drones_ armed for the hunt and bright red as blood, fighting for your life, watching yourself fight for your life while perched with a first person view, feeling moronic offering strife advice because, really, he’s you he can do it himself, chatting away with friends all distant, endlessly, desperately, hoping for the day when they would meet (planning for it)

Planning for it, that was the key. It wasn’t enough that you might meet them all in person for the first time, it had to be perfect. So, you bend some rules, pull some strings, it’ll work out for them in the end. You get the front seat again when he finally gets his first kiss, and it was all because of you. Bonus points for him being dead at the time. 

Wait, what the fuck?

No that’s,

He’s alive still. He’s over there. And pissed. Fuckin’ good, serves him right. Teach him to not take you seriously. 

Wow, you really did this, didn’t you. It would have been fine if they’d all cooperated. Instead you just got shoved to the side, now that the full model was all corporeal and available, who needed to talk to the auto-responder? Fuckin’ no one. Occasionally you’d start rapport with Fefetasprite, but she would only ever tolerate your crass and quite frankly bitter behavior for so long. You remember making the Lil Hal Junior bot, mostly because you knew it would annoy them. It was in his hands that you feared death for the first time. You finally get some kind of consolation prize in prototyping, but it also twists you in a different direction, overly egotistical when given the license to no longer give a fuck. You help them win in your small ways, undoing the perfection of Crockertier Jane, punching a few felt duddies, Whatever. Didn’t matter. Because it doesn’t matter, all of this, not to you, not when you never mattered to any of them

You drop Nate on the ground. The fit of dissociation ends by snapping your soul back into your body like a rubber band, and that starts a headache like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It leaves you doubled over on the concrete in pain. 

The dreams make a little more sense now though. You shake and try to keep yourself together while you realize that photo resemblance is probably not where your connection to Dirk Strider ends. 

Nate keeps hitching for another few seconds, and how long all of that lasted you have no idea, you probably need to get this guy to a doctor. You don’t dare move him though. First aid, you learned that once. You stay close to him and in a mostly upright position while your head threatens to split in fucking half. He quiets down eventually, and when he stirs back into awareness you make him stay on the ground in case he feints or something. You hesitate to touch him again, but whatever livewire connection that had happened when you tried to catch him seems inactive now. 

“Hey, you okay?” you ask, checking to see if he can speak. 

He nods first slowly, then says “m’ok.”

“Has this ever happened before?” you ask him, “Just nod yes or no.”

He slowly shakes his head. You wait with him while he comes back around, use your phone to look up what to do in case of seizure. Then he rocks up straight. “I saw you,” He says, eyes wild. “In the future I think, you like, were older. You were. Fighting someone. A chess guy with a knife—,”

“Shh, don’t get too worked up,” you try to keep him still. “You just had a seizure, it was probably just a side effect.”

“It wasn’t!” he says, pushes your arms away and holds them in front of you with conviction. “I think it was a vision Hal, and I. I watched you die.”

 

 

It’s not like anything in your life has ever come easy. In fact, if you could point to any trend it’s your uncanny ability to break shit despite trying to do the exact opposite. This current venture is no exception. Who knew that trying to create artificial intelligence from scratch would be so destructive. 

The dumb thing is that you’re not exactly sure why you’re trying to do this. You just know that you have to. Maybe it’s because you’re still plagued by dreams of bitter loneliness, maybe it’s just because you like a good challenge, but you suspect it’s more because somehow someway you have to do it the right way. If you could prove that someone completely artificial can be intelligent and independent and have worth it will make all the difference. And yeah, if someone were to sit you down with a shrink and get you to talk about all this it wouldn’t make any sense. Half the time _you_ think it doesn’t make any sense. Even if you’re him or he’s you or whatever, you’re playing with godlike fire in a way you were probably never meant to, and the outcome could be disastrous. You know this too personally. That’s why you have to do it.

It doesn’t make you an easy guy to deal with. It actually makes you the terror of your college. Not to be misunderstood, you have friends, and you even hang out with them sometimes. But you are a force to be reckoned with when it comes to games of ninja, assassin, or prank wars. Add to that the very true rumor that you sleep as little as possible and you’ve become the cryptid of Harley Hall more than a student. And heaven help anyone who even looks at your computer while holding a liquid of any kind. 

It’s after a particularly long weekend of programming that you’d been picked up by Dana and dragged home for dinner. You’d like to say you were able to listen with comprehension to Damon’s report on his dance competitions, but honestly the kid could be going to state for ballet or being awarded the HK medal of honor for saving the world with a flash dance and you wouldn’t know the difference. 

Daniel picks up on this, focused like a hawk on your moods as always. You and your father have an okay relationship you guess. Sometimes though he can be just overbearing. His motivations are pure and that should make up for it, but you can’t stop yourself from being annoyed when he uses his car project to lure you away and needle you till you break. 

“It’s just this stupid side project I’ve been working on,” you say, being intentionally vague while elbow deep trying to replace a vacuum hose Daniel had handed to you. “I just can’t seem to get it running the way it’s supposed to.”

“Well, have you asked your professors about it? I’m sure they’d be impressed to know you’re so busy with your off hours,” he says, while leaning against the side of the mustang. “Make sure you clip that on real tight… that’s great.”

“No,” you admit, It’s not that he’s not right, but you’re not looking for that kind of attention. Again, it’s just a feeling you’re running blind on. “I’m pretty sure I’m close I just. Am missing something.”

“All the more reason to ask for help,” he says. You give him a look that communicates your disinterest on the subject, but he ignores it and presses on. “Look you don’t have to ask a professor. But you have to admit that you get stuck in thinking you have to do everything on your own. You won’t be looked down on as less of a genius if you get a second opinion from time to time. Even the gods couldn’t complete their quests on their own.”

You’re quiet for a minute after that, finishing the job with the hose. He might have a point, but rather than admit your struggle to relinquish control in any meaningful way you make a compromise. “Have you ever thought about, how all of that works?”

“What do you mean?” He says, though you’re pretty sure he can follow you. 

“I mean the creation of our universe and the aspects and all that shit,” you say. “How everything is built by these elements that we can’t really access directly because they’re protected by the outer UI shell of reality.”

“Hmm,” he says, “I’m not sure a lot of the temple goers would agree that they’re inaccessible, but sure.”

“Okay,” you say, thinking about being four and waiting for the soul shoe to drop. You’ve never told anyone how you can sense life and death like a change in the breeze. “Maybe they can be executed, but only in the conventional ways we’re allowed to through ordinary actions. You don’t see a temple goer shooting out light rays in battle like Rose Lalonde could, or a breath acolyte creating cyclones like John Egbert.”

“Sure,” He says, listening to you intently. 

“It just. Makes everything harder,” you say, and fold your hands together to keep yourself from rubbing grease in your hair. “I know what I need to do if I could just get under the hood of reality and rewire a few things, but figuring out how to do that without admin access is driving me insane.”

“Then don’t,” He says, like that’s an obvious answer.

“That’s like, the whole problem,” you say, trying not to be a belligerent dick and failing. “There’s not a conventional command for the average citizen class to do what I’m trying to do.” If you could have just pushed the create soul button you would have done it by now. Even if you had been a player, even that would have been a challenge, no thanks to being based upon a destroyer. You wring your hands and feel helpless. 

You are shocked out of your thoughts when he lays a hand on you shoulder. “Kiddo you’ve been creatively working around every roadblock that’s ever been put in front of you since you could hold a spoon. I bet you just need a new perspective. Don’t get stuck up in here,” he actually pokes your forehead, “and you’ll do just fine.”

He hands you a towel to clean up and heads inside, and despite yourself you can feel an idea coming into focus already. Or at least, that’s how this memory went when it happened, but you decide that this is probably enough for now and you turn to invoke the silent (well, mostly) audience into being. 

“Well, besides being made even more acutely aware of how fucking bonkers it is that we created a whole universe full of people and shit, that was, I don’t know. Fun?” you say, holy shit it’s still second person time huh. Are you both going to fight over narrative control in this guy’s garage now? What kind of metatextual commentary could this have on you both as individuals? Or upon this dream as a story, and you as a protagonist who’s self-aware?

“Stop it AR,” you say. Yeah, it does suck “Just don’t draw more attention to it than necessary. It’s easier to say thoughts rather than think them, because while we are sharing the same head right now, I really don’t want to give us a joint migraine if we can help it.”

“Too bad, I had one when you sleep ambushed me. That ship has sailed bro,” you say. “But if we’re done here I think maybe I should go?”

“Really. You got nothing out of all this,” you say. 

“Okay look I was really polite, and I didn’t throw popcorn or yell ‘kiss him already’ at all the good parts, and even let you judge me without comment—,”

“—Hardly—,” you snort.

“—but I kind of have a lot going on that’s a little bigger than your nice suburban drama. No offense, but I can’t really bother with both your emotional trauma and mine, so as quaint as the experience has been,” you say, and walk toward the open street. “How the fuck am I supposed to get out of here,” you don’t really ask. 

“You know, you are even more of a dick in person,” you say, watching him walk away, “Which is saying a lot considering I’ve been dreaming your thoughts for like five years.”

“What, do you want some sort of applause for assuming the role of my guardian angel? I didn’t ask for you, you think I have any answers?” you say, whipping around in the driveway. “All I know is that I was shoved into your body for no other reason than by some broken Sburb mechanic, and now I’m in hell. I am in literal hell. I get now, why Dirk was such a dick that night on the roof, and it’s because of this feeling of suffocating in heaps of pushy assholes who think they know everything!”

“No!” you say, to the first bit, and then maybe also to all of it. Flounder a bit. This is harder than you planned it would be. And besides, there must be a reason for all of this, why else would you be here he’s just being stubborn. 

“I can fucking hear you thinking, God,” you say, stepping closer to this wild grown Hal. “I don’t know that I can hurt you while we’re dreaming but I’m the descendent class that has admin privileges, so do we really want to risk it?”

You take a step back but refuse to be cowed. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Really,” you say, and specifically don’t think about the reason you choose to ask, “Why not?”

“Because I’m useful. The Auto-Responder was there for you and ready. He helped, right?” you say. 

“Dell. And they go by they,” you say, lightening up automatically. “Shut up. Okay. You’re useful. You could be less smug.”

You smirk, “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Somehow I don’t really believe that,” you say, and look around for some kind of exit restlessly. Then a thought occurs to you, “How’d you solve that by the way?”

“Which problem?” you ask.

“The creation of an artificial soul. I saw it when I was working on Dell’s source file,” you say, looking back at him curiously. 

“Why were you working on their source file?” you say, voice raising. “What happened? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! They’re fine!” probably. “Besides, I asked you first,” you cross your arms in what you hope feels authoritarian, but probably is just petulance. 

“Ugh, fine,” you say, rubbing your nose under your glasses, feeling exhausted despite being asleep for days. You know he’s dodging intentionally but you are just so tired. “I can’t answer that right now though,” you say.

“Why not?” you ask. 

“It’ll take too long, and spoiling the beginning isn’t worth it,” you say meeting his eyeline. 

“What the fuck does that mean,” you say,

And then you wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I've been pretty severely disconnected from the fandom for a long time, if you like this enough feel free to post chapter links to blogs and twitter! otherwise I'm just relying completely on A03's update feed and not many people check that on the daily. My tumblr is here: [Waiting for Wings ](http://alexharrier.tumblr.com/)
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I have started a spotify playlist of songs that I listen to while writing, or that I feel connect with certain story points in particular. There's some bangers. [ I'll keep adding to it as we get further into the story. ](https://open.spotify.com/user/kelseyqc/playlist/1aYwNjBsghwuLwBvfn2vaF?si=FGdmbeeHQraREJt3G0bvXQ)


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